


Turning of the Tide

by benschins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Eventual Smut, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, John's POV, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV First Person, Some Humor, Some angst, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 27,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benschins/pseuds/benschins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing compares to the quick-witted, curly haired detective with the pale skin and piercing eyes. There is no one else for John Watson. There is only Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>This is a multi-chapter fic following the progression of the boys' relationship from friends to lovers. Eventual Johnlock. Virgin!Sherlock. Now rated E for smut in later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovelies! My first posting of a multi-chapter fic! How exciting.
> 
> The title for this comes from Shakespeare's Henry V and the quote that says, "...even at the turning o' the tide..." It usually indicates a change in something that had previously been stable.
> 
> ALSO: Be aware that, while this fic is rated T for now, there will most definitely be an increase to M or E in the foreseeable future for some sexy times.
> 
> Two things:  
> a) This story is not betaed, so bear with me here.  
> b) I'm from the US, so please excuse any inconsistencies with British vs American word usage.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything. That honor goes to Sir ACD and Moftiss.
> 
> Alright, alright. I'll let you read now.

_Prologue_

Police tape sets up a visual barrier between the crime scene and the intrigued spectators. Inside the flimsy wall is an array of cars with flashing blue lights and miscellaneous police officers. These are mainly in charge of keeping curious onlookers and reporters from seeing more than they need to. Another imposing barrier, this one of human form, is encircling the actual body.

Outside the wall is an assortment of people from different walks of life. There is a mother herding her children away from the scene, a tall man from a higher social class, reporters from every news channel around, and a group of young people with camera phones eager to see the gruesome sight.

He doesn't care about such things, the man with the turned up collar. The one with the military bearing seems the opposite of his companion. Quiet, steady, with a touch of steel strengthening his spine, one would rue the day they crossed this man, and yet he maintains the persona of a friendly sort.

The tall one is lanky and pale, looking as though he doesn't eat or sleep on a regular basis. His bearing is one of aloof indifference to anything and anybody around him. He is the center of attention in the huddle of detectives, obviously imperative to solving the case as he studies and examines every inch of the surrounding area.

But these are just the musings of a silent passerby. We already know this pair.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the consulting detective and the doctor.


	2. Skeletal Tribulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a slight moment of self-denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter 1, like I promised! This story is basically following the progression of Sherlock and John's relationship from friends to lovers as I see fit to write it, so if that's not your cup of tea, turn back now. :)
> 
> Happy reading!

"I think if you were to locate his daughter, she might be able to shed some light into your cavernous brains," Sherlock says, straightening and shoving his hands into the pockets of his long Belstaff coat.

"Daughter…?" a silver-haired man you know as Lestrade asks, a look of annoyed satisfaction on his face. "He doesn't have a daughter."

"I think you'll find that he does. Can't you tell?" The lean man begins dashing about the body as he examines every detail once more for the sake of Scotland Yard. In rapid-fire speech, he begins. "Judging by the state of his attire, he dressed himself. Obviously, there was no one to tell him the outfit didn't coordinate and that he missed a spot while shaving. His clothes are slightly ragged, implying either insufficient funds or lack of desire for new clothing items. Going by the highly expensive watch on his wrist, a gift from his boss of twenty years, and the meticulous state of his hair and nails, he makes good pay and has for quite some time. With an employer giving away such items, he would have to be making enough money to support himself comfortably. How come his clothing doesn't fit with the profile? He had someone else buying clothes for him for quite some time. Mother? Unlikely at his age. Sister? Possible, but still doubtful. Wife? Yes. There's the matter of the left ring finger, which bears no band at the present, but the slight indentation and tan line suggests there was for a while—come now, you all should know this!—and wasn't removed until recently. When I say recently…approximately a year, judging the state of his apparel. However, what was the cause for the removal? Not a death, since this type of man, devoted for so long, would have left it on or moved the ring to the right ring finger to symbolize his widower status. Divorce or separation then. Probably divorce.

"The cause of this is obvious by the pictures in his wallet. Sentiment. It can get the best of us. And by  _us,_ I mean anyone bar myself." The detective pulls out the dead man's wallet as he speaks, opening it. "The rather alarming amount of photographs in this man's wallet is practically an autobiography in itself. However, no pictures of the wife, so who could these be? Too young to be a girlfriend, as she's barely out of college. I suppose it would be possible, however, it is highly unlikely. His type? Her looks? She wouldn't go for a man like him. Daughter, then, judging by the resemblance in the nose and mouth. But she's too old to have been our deceased and his wife's daughter, since she's clearly around twenty-four and they've only been married for approximately twenty. This extra family member was found out by the wife—and possibly the husband, not sure—in the past year. Look at the state of the photographs. Very few dog-eared edges and printed on new paper. He didn't have these until the breakup. Which means he probably found out about the girl at the same time as the wife." Jumping over the body, he leans closer and motions to Lestrade. "Smell his jacket. Seem familiar? No? Of course not. It's the light fragrance of a younger woman, not the heavy, musky smell a woman of his age uses. This perfume belonged to his daughter. And I know who you're looking for, as we passed her on our way in. I recognized the scent."

"Sherlock! Why didn't you say so?" Lestrade blurts, frustrated and tired from an obviously sleepless night. Sherlock probably knows the reason for that.

"Would you have gone and tracked her down without any evidence at all?"

"We still don't have any evidence."

"Then what is this, exactly?" Sherlock asks, holding up a small bracelet between his gloved fingers that matches the bracelet seen in a couple of the photos in the man's wallet. "Come, John. We have other matters to tend to," Sherlock says, beginning to walk away.

I look sheepishly to Lestrade. "Sorry. Call us if you need anything."

Greg nods as he bags the bracelet Sherlock has discovered. He's used to Sherlock's abrupt exits by now.

I jog to catch up, nearly missing the cab Sherlock had hailed, and enter. "You know, sometimes it might be nice if you waited."

Sherlock hums, intently tapping away at his mobile.

I release a sigh. "Was there really anything else to tend to? Or was that just an excuse—"

"Really, John, you should know me well enough by now."

There wasn't anything, then.

The cab pulls up to the curb outside 221 Baker Street and we exit. Mrs. Hudson is just inside the door, waiting. "Sherlock, you have a guest."

I watch Sherlock deducing who it is by Mrs. Hudson's appearance. If the face he is making is any indication, the company will be unpleasant.

Sherlock mounts the stairs steadily, not rushing up as he often does. I notice, and am a bit wary. The taller man pushes the door open and steps inside.

"What is it, Mycroft?"

* * *

I study Sherlock's still form. He's been like this for the past day, unmoving and unseeing. It is now a familiar posture for me to observe, but I worry about my flatmate. Where a usually passive expression resides on Sherlock's face, it is a slightly distressed one there now. A worry line creates a crease on his smooth forehead.

Sherlock blinks suddenly, eyes snapping to mine. The movement startles me, and I jump slightly. Getting up with a flourish, Sherlock crosses the room in two long strides to where his violin rests. Picking it up, he begins playing a tune I haven't heard in a while.

"What did Mycroft come to tell you, Sherlock?" I ask quietly after several minutes of passionate playing. I had been excused from the conversation between the brothers two days prior.

Sherlock finishes playing with an angry pull of the bow, making a discordant shriek clamor out of the instrument.

"Nothing of significance."

I give him one of my disbelieving smiles. "No, Sherlock. Don't do this. Not to me. He obviously said something that upset you."

"This has nothing to do with Mycroft," he snaps. He had been looking out of the window dejectedly, but quickly sets down the violin and whirls, perching in his chair in a squatting position, as he often does.

"Could you speak plainly for once?" I say, voice rising in pitch.

"It's gone missing, John." He scrubs a frustrated hand down his face.

"What?" I glance around the room. "The new head in the fridge?"

Sherlock gives me a strange look. "What? Of course not." He gets back up and starts away, then turns back and gives me an accusatory glare. "Why would it be?"

"I…don't know." I had rather hoped it would just… _disappear_ during the night.

Eyes narrowed, Sherlock begins pacing, dismissing the brief interrogation. "It's the skull that's missing. Isn't it obvious?"

"Very," I say sarcastically, looking towards the mantle, which, in fact, is missing its usual resident.

He stops again and gives me a scrupulous look. He never can quite get the knack of sarcasm.

What he's said suddenly sinks in for me and I find the whole thing ridiculously amusing. I can't stop the laughter that bubbles up.

As expected, he shoots a volatile glare in my direction. "What is it?"

I try to pull some air into my lungs as the laughter fades. Motioning in his direction, I say, "You're just so worked up. I thought there was a death, or Moriarty was back, or something equally as bad." I chuckle again, a hideous sound that's entirely too girly for my liking. "And it's all over your…your… _friend_ of a skull!"

He plops down on the couch. "It's an  _important_ skull, John!"

The grin on my face won't go away. "Sherlock, are you getting sentimental over a dead person's head?"

"Absolutely not." He turns over in a huff and faces the back of the sofa, curling in on himself in an obvious form of pouting.

Still chuckling slightly, I get up and go over to him, placing a hand on his stiff shoulder. "Come, now. I'll bet Mrs. Hudson took it away somewhere. Maybe even Mycroft hid it before we arrived the other day. You know how those two are about that thing."

Sherlock mumbles something I can't understand as he's said it straight into the cushions.

"What's that?"

He turns his head slightly so his mouth is unobstructed. "I  _said,_ I already checked all the usual places Mrs. Hudson's hid it before. And Mycroft knows better."

I sigh a little. This has actually gotten him into a schoolboy huff. It could be days before he pulls himself out of it if he doesn't get a case soon.

Belatedly, I realize my hand still rests on his shoulder and quickly pull it away. It's a little surprising he hadn't said anything about it, since he's mostly adverse to human contact.

I try to ignore the slight tingling in my fingers or the warmth spreading up my arm.

He does that to people. He affects almost anyone he comes in contact with. The man has  _fangirls,_ for god's sake. I tell myself that every time I get that fluttery feeling in my stomach around him.

Add to that the fact that I am  _not_ gay.

I prefer women,  _thank you very much,_ and any strange attraction to Sherlock is simply a fluke. Perhaps it's a natural reaction to being around Sherlock Holmes. I'm fairly certain even Donovan has a thing for him, despite the fact she calls him names every time she sees him. And Irene Adler, who  _was_ gay, most definitely had a thing for him. He's the kind of man that makes anyone question his or her sexual orientation.

I'm still telling myself this as I make tea and Sherlock continues to pout over his missing skull.


	3. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner, bones, and an apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to update early since school starts next week, and Chapter 1 was really just an introductory chapter. Once school starts, I'm still planning on updating every Saturday night.

As I write this, I've decided to leave out the dull days, the ones where nothing pertinent to this story occur. There are far too many of them to count, and considering you all have busy lives, I'll just cut to the chase.

Things go about normally for the following week. Sherlock still pouts over his skull while waiting for a case, and I work regular shifts at the hospital. I come home every evening, get us some food, try to get Sherlock to eat, and complain when he refuses. Sometimes he'll eat a bite or two, but usually he just huddles on the couch sipping tea or reading one of his dull books.

(This thought runs through my mind and I realize how much Sherlock has truly rubbed off on me.)

Tonight when I get home, he has an experiment going. I have absolutely no idea what it is, nor do I care to know. Something boils on the stove while he studies a slide on the microscope, so I decide the kitchen will be out of commission for the evening.

"Shall we eat at Angelo's, then?"

Sherlock hums a response that could mean anything from  _absolutely not_ to  _if we must._

I'm tired and it's been a long day and I am in no mood for Sherlock's half-baked responses. Marching to the coatrack, I put on my own jacket before pulling down Sherlock's coat and scarf. Returning to the detective, I pull the scarf around his neck and throw the coat over his head.

"John!" he shouts, shoving the Belstaff off his mop of curls. "I was studying something!"

"I'm fully aware!" I say as I head back towards the front door. "We're going out, Sherlock. I'm not taking no for an answer this time!"

"Go by yourself. I'm busy." He turns back to his experiment.

"No, I'm not cooking and I'm not eating by myself. You're coming, Sherlock!"

He turns and we stare each other down for ten full seconds, his piercing eyes boring into mine. At first, this method worked on me and I'd back off, but after knowing Sherlock Holmes for several years, one builds up a certain immunity to such tactics.

We both know there are alternatives to my argument, but we're also both aware that Sherlock will eventually give in.

At last, he gets up and pulls on his coat, fixing his scarf the way he likes it as well. I flip off the stove and he glares at me, but I don't let it scare me off. Sherlock Holmes is just a thirty-something-year-old bully.

By the time we're ready to go and are in a cab, my stomach is growling loudly.

"Do try to control your stomach, John. The noise is intolerable."

"I can't—!" I groan in frustration and let it go. He'll pout the entire time we're out. I really should let him stay home when he's in one of these moods, but the sad truth is, I enjoy the git's company.

* * *

Angelo's is quiet when we arrive, as we've preceded the evening rush. Angelo comes out smiling and places a candle on our table (as usual), something I've given up protesting. Without asking, he brings what we always order, and Sherlock barely eats a bite of his own food (as usual) and picks the tomatoes off my side salad instead (as usual).

Neither of us says more than five words while we're there, and once we have left, I'm more than ready to go home and go to bed. Sherlock stares pointlessly out the window and my wishes change to hoping Lestrade calls with a difficult case so Sherlock pulls himself out of this mood.

* * *

The cold air hitting my bare skin wakes me up abruptly the next morning. Popping open my eyes, I glare up at Sherlock who still holds the covers he's pulled off of me.

"Sherlock, what the hell?" I grumble, looking at the clock. Four AM. Bloody...

"We have a case, John. Get up." He tosses the covers onto the floor and walks out before I can pull my gun on him.

By the time I've dressed myself and am ready to go, Sherlock has taken to pacing with his hands behind his back. At least he waited for me.

This is when I notice his lack of enthusiasm. Normally, a case brings the light to Sherlock's eyes and he becomes the animated version of himself. Delighted Sherlock, if you will.

"Something wrong?" I ask, pulling on my heavier jacket as the sun has yet to warm the streets of London.

He doesn't answer and I begin to wonder if he's even aware that I've entered the room.

"Sherlock," I say, a bit louder this time.

Still no response.

"Sherlock!" I yell, and he finally turns his head toward me.

He has the nerve to look inconvenienced. "There's no need to yell, John. I can hear you just fine."

I roll my eyes. "Are you going to answer my question, then?"

"No." While I was talking, he had started in the direction of the door.

Following him, I ask, "Why not?"

"Nothing's wrong, John." He uses his dismissive tone and I know I won't get anywhere with him for a while.

* * *

Punching him sounded like a good option. The daft wanker had gotten himself into a shit load of trouble with this case. Not only had he run off without me  _again,_ but he'd gone and gotten three of his ribs broken. He sounds awful, his breathing wheezing slightly, but he had refused to go to the hospital. He insisted I knew how to do it well enough and I could take care of it myself.

So now, I sit on the edge of the coffee table across from Sherlock as I wrap his ribcage. Sherlock is mumbling gibberish about how long it takes ribs to heal and isn't it  _fascinating_  John that a person can drown in their own blood given the proper injury.

"You're a bloody idiot, Sherlock," I state ironically as I finish the wrapping and grab some ointment for Sherlock's busted lip and cheekbone.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock says, then gasps as he feels a twinge in his chest.

My brow furrows at Sherlock's obvious pain and I dab gently at the busted lower lip. "You should be lying on a bed, not the couch."

The detective doesn't reply, telling me without words that that is best.

"Okay, this isn't going to be fun. For you." I can't help the slightly wicked tone that creeps into my voice as I set aside the supplies and stand up.

Sherlock glares daggers at me as I lean down to help him ease into a standing position so he can walk to his room. I had been right; the walk to his room isn't fun  _at all._  I can tell every step makes him want to crumple in on himself, and the poor man can barely breathe through the pain. With collaborative efforts, we manage to get Sherlock into a tolerable position, lying on his broken ribs to ease the breathing discomforts.

About a half hour before, I had loaded him up on painkillers I had on hand and they were starting to take their effect on Sherlock. He actually chuckles a couple of times as I adjust pillows around him.

I straighten and flip the lamp off, the only light in the room being the silvery pathway coming from the crack of the door. "Okay. Call if you need anything."

Pulling the door behind me, I barely have it shut before I hear a muffled call of my name.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"John."

"Yeah, I heard you. What is it?" I can see Sherlock, pale in the dim lighting, peeking up at me with big eyes.

"Would you stay, John?"

I raise an eyebrow, but open the door wider and step back in. "Painkillers really did a number on you, did they?"

Sherlock ignores me. "It hurts, John. Everything hurts."

Not sure whether the detective really is in that much pain or if he's being his typical childish self, I don't reply as I slip in on the other side of the bed.

* * *

The next morning is cold. Sherlock's room is always a few degrees cooler than the rest of the flat, and today is no different. I open my eyes slowly, still exhausted from the previous day. The room is dim and it takes me a moment to recall the events of the night before. I also become well aware of something warm, curly haired, and heavy lying on my chest. Sherlock.

I'll take the time later to deal with the erratic swirl of emotions coursing through me ( _I have_   _Sherlock Holmes sleeping on my chest),_ and switch into Doctor John Watson mode.

The position the detective had taken up during the night can't be comfortable. It had heightened the wheezing of his lungs and I know I need to get him into a better position.

"Sherlock." My hand strays to the curly mass in front of my face. "Sherlock, wake up. I need you to breathe for me."

The detective stirs and rolls off of me. I hear the hitch in his breath and the small groan that slips out. Turning so I'm facing the detective, I slowly ease him onto his broken ribs. Sherlock hisses in a breath, but allows me to continue.

"Take a deep breath, Sherlock. You don't want to catch pneumonia on top of this."

The detective pulls in air slowly and painfully and my heart sinks at the pained expression on my flatmate's face.

"It still hurts, John." The statement is quiet.

I breathe in myself. "Yes, I know. And it's going to be a while before it's better. You need to stay home and rest those bones."

No argument comes. I know it's just a brief victory and as soon as Sherlock feels the slightest bit better and/or bored, he'll be flouncing about London again, but I'm glad that he's agreed for now.

The day passes slowly and quietly for us inhabitants of 221B. I make Sherlock eat, and have him take a few deep breaths every hour to prevent a collapsed lung or pneumonia. Sherlock sleeps more than he has in months, barely waking long enough for me to do what is required and give him painkillers.

When I force the detective to sit up later in the day so I can unwrap his ribs, Sherlock actually lets out a little cry of pain, simultaneously gripping my wrist and halting my movements. It is so out of character and takes me so by surprise that I pause what I'm doing long enough to turn away and breathe deeply, tapping down emotions and pulling myself back into doctor mode once more.

"I have to do this, Sherlock. Believe it or not, you'll breathe easier, which is what you need right now." I'd really left the wrappings on too long already. He lets go of my wrist and I pull the last bit away, sucking in air as I see the deep bruising and discoloration dotting the detective's chest. "Jesus, it wasn't this bad last night," I say dumbly.

"Obviously, John," Sherlock forces out, still a condescending prat when injured.

I let out an unimpressed chuckle and begin slowly putting pressure on each of his ribs, noting Sherlock's reaction to each.

"I was stupid."

I glance up.  _Sherlock Holmes admitting he's stupid? Now I know something is really wrong,_ I think, but don't say. Instead, "Always. To which time were you referring?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I shouldn't have run off without letting you know where I was going."

I shake my head firmly. "No, you shouldn't have run off without  _me_. We've done this before, Sherlock. It almost always ends badly for you."

"You could have been injured, too."

"Well, then we'd both be where you are and we'd have Mrs. Hudson doting on us like an overprotective mother." I smile gently.

Sherlock actually chuckles, then quickly stops at the miserable pain that jolts his system.

My face shifts to a concerned frown. "I don't like it when you run off without at least letting me know what's going on."

"Since the Fall, you mean," Sherlock says, with such easy detachment that I want to throttle him.

"Yes, since the bloody Fall, you bastard." I inwardly cringe at my own use of "bloody."

Sherlock's lips lift in a typical half-smile for a brief moment before disappearing. "I never apologized."

Finished with my examination, I motion for him to button his shirt back up. "What? Of course you did." How could he forget something like that?

The day a little over two months ago is forever burned inside my brain. I had punched him, screamed at him, called him every name in the book, then collapsed in a heap on the couch, wondering if I truly had gone mad. If it was all a horribly taunting nightmare. But it hadn't been, and Sherlock had apologized briefly but with feeling for leaving me for so long.

We rarely bring up the Fall.

"Not for what mattered." Sherlock's deep baritone breaks into my thoughts.

I stop in the process of wadding up the wrappings to throw away. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock clears his throat and takes a deep, painful breath before continuing. "I never apologized for leaving you the way I did. I let you think I didn't care, that I was so selfish I couldn't live with being seen as a fake. That it meant more to me than any person."

"We both know that wasn't true," I say in Sherlock's defense.

"Do you, John? I don't think you do." Sherlock's face is the most serious I have ever seen it. The gravity of what he is saying strikes me with such force I feel as if I'm the one with the broken ribs.

Sherlock continues. "Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson—I would have done it for them. I would have jumped if it were just the two of them. But you..." The great detective looks away. "You were the one that made me panic. Moriarty threatened you once again and I  _lost it._  You were what made that goodbye painful."

I stare, unblinking, at the man in front of me. What does he mean by this? "What are you saying?" I ask quietly.

Sherlock turns so he can lie down on his side, facing away from me. "You just needed to know that."

Taking that as a sign that I'd been dismissed, I stand and leave the room. Do I dare hope that Sherlock's confession is his way of saying he cares for me more than just a partner, a flatmate...a friend?

Feelings I've been dancing around for months, even years, threaten to choke me as I drop heavily onto the sofa. I care deeply for Sherlock, maybe even love him. But I'm not gay. And yet, even women have started to come up lacking in my eyes. Nothing compares to the quick-witted, curly haired detective with the pale skin and piercing eyes. There is no one else.

There is only Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm relying on the internet for any medical information, and we all know how reliable that is, so please excuse any glaring problems OR let me know how to improve them. -C


	4. The Color Purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The color purple, a soldier without a gun, and a moment of gratitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the title for this chapter from the American novel of the same name written by Alice Walker. The title is the only thing they have in common, however. :) I apologize for the brevity of this one.

It's been several weeks since the rib incident and Sherlock is healing nicely, although every now and then he'll briefly still, statue-like, in the middle of a deduction or amidst a bored rampage through the flat. He still hurts, as he seldom bends over a victim when they're on the ground and only plays violin for very short intervals.

They are small details, most of which would probably be unnoticeable to everyone except Mycroft and myself, but they're also a big deal. Sherlock doesn't let his body slow him down. I know his injuries weren't so bad that he'd let himself be handicapped. So what in his mindset has changed to allow small signs of weakness to peek through?

I don't have work today, so I sit slowly typing up one of Sherlock's more recent cases. The detective had rushed out of the flat early that morning with a brief explanation of where he was going, so I wasn't overly concerned when he still wasn't back in the evening hours.

A loud door slam brings my attention up from my computer screen and then Sherlock is in the doorway, throwing off his coat and rushing into his room.

"John!" he calls. "Get dressed. We have to go to a gay bar."

I pause briefly before realizing what he's talking about.  _Undercover_. He hates the word and chooses to omit it in favor of spouting sometimes shocking sentences.

_John, get dressed. We have to go to the slaughterhouse._

_John, get dressed. We have an embalming to attend._

_John, get undressed. We have a meeting at a nudist colony._

Dramatic bastard is more like his brother than he thinks.

I knew it was coming eventually. There is no way two men who go about solving crimes together can escape having to do something of this sort at some point in their career.

I stand. "What would you have me to wear?"

"Wear something, you know…" His hand waves through the doorway in my general direction. " _Feminine."_

Letting out a snort, I head for my room. "Sherlock, do you really think a  _straight man_ keeps clothes of that sort lying around in his closet?"

His voice is muffled and I hear him throwing clothes about in his room. The man really has a ridiculous amount of disguises. "You'll figure something out."

Ten minutes later, he's pounding on my door, yelling for me to hurry up. I've made do with a few smaller items of clothes I'd fit in before the army, hoping that subtle was good enough in this case. When I open the door, however, I realize Sherlock has  _not_ gone for subtle. A dark purple t-shirt stretches tightly against his wiry frame, accompanied by equally tight-fitting jeans. While this might not sound over-the-top, when it's accompanied by whatever product he'd worked into his hair, it certainly has its desired effect. He really looks quite…gorgeous.

"Nice work," I say with raised brows.

The detective rolls his eyes and thunders down the stairs to get his coat.

Once we're out on the street, Sherlock hailing a cab, I decide to ask a seemingly  _important_ question from my point-of-view. "So…for this bit, are we, you know, a…well, a—"

"For god's sake, John. How do you ever say anything at all?" A cab pulls up in front of us and he opens the door and gives me a once-over before meeting my eye. " _Yes,_ for this  _bit_ we're a  _couple."_

What that word jolts through my system is absolutely ridiculous and I tamp it down before climbing in behind the gangly detective.

* * *

This whole situation reminds me briefly of a case we'd been working before the…well, before the Fall. We'd been in an ordinary and rather lively bar, inquiring after a suspect, when one particularly  _insistent_ woman had decided she fancied me a bit. Sherlock, who had quickly disappeared once we'd stepped inside the building, had suddenly appeared at my side, grabbing my hand and making it painfully clear to the poor girl that I was  _unavailable._ Once we were back at the flat, I'd yelled at him, telling him exactly what I thought about him, in no polite terms, and reestablished that I was not gay,  _thank you very much._

"I was just trying to help, John," he'd said darkly.

Now, several years later and a lot more water under the bridge, I find myself in a similar situation, albeit in reverse. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock is quite attention-grabbing for others in the place, and he has to thwart several efforts before I take matters into my own hands, literally, and link our fingers before dragging him to a semi-secluded table in the back of the bar. I push him toward the chair that has a better view of the entire room and claim the other myself.

"If you were trying to be covert about this whole thing, you should have left that shirt at home."

He waves his hand dismissively, pulling his scarf off. "Inconsequential."

I roll my eyes and get up. "I'll get us something to drink, then?" I've figured out by now that this is more of a stakeout than something requiring Sherlock to interact with the persons present.

However, when I return, another man has taken my seat and is talking excitedly to Sherlock. The detective, looking completely uninterested, isn't even facing the other guy.

Setting down the drinks, I clap a hand over the stranger's shoulder. "Hey, mate. Sorry, I beat you to him."

The stranger looks at Sherlock, who shrugs an agreement. At least I think it was an agreement.

"Oh. I—Sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

He gets up and makes his way to another table as I reclaim my seat.

"I didn't mess anything up, did I?" I ask, taking a sip of the fruity concoction in front of me.

Sherlock fiddles with the straw of his drink, but doesn't take his eyes from the room. "Not at all. In fact, that's the reason I brought you along."

I chuckle. "To chase away the interested parties?" I tease.

"Precisely," he says, completely serious.

Shaking my head, I mutter, "You're a real dick, you know that?"

Still looking ahead, his mouth tilts up in that half-smile of his.

I've just made it to the end of my drink when Sherlock abruptly stands up and throws his coat back on, shoving the scarf in his pocket. "That's our man."

I look around, not seeing anyone particularly noticeable. "Where?"

Suddenly, a guy sitting at the bar makes eye contact with Sherlock as the detective walks towards him and jumps up. Before I can blink, we're chasing the man out into the dark streets. Sherlock had a bit of a head start, so I push myself to catch up. Despite this, his dark coat flaps around the corner to an alleyway, still in hot pursuit, leaving me behind. Before I reach the opening to the side street, I hear a loud grunt, fueling me to hurry. Sherlock is lying on the cold ground, trying to stand back up, but it looks like his ribs are killing him.

"Stay there!" I bark, continuing after the man I see a small distance ahead.

"You didn't bring your gun?" he all but yells.

"Where would I have kept it in this getup?" I shout back, running after the man.

* * *

Case closed, we head back to the flat, Sherlock taking shallow breaths on the ride there. He refused to go to the hospital once again, despite both myself and Lestrade trying to convince him otherwise. I'd succeeded in knocking the bastard out that had kicked Sherlock in the ribs, then waited with the mad detective until Lestrade arrived to take the man away.

Sherlock is silent as I poke and prod at his ribs once more. I fear at least one of them might be cracked again. He still has an angry red print from the man's boot on his pale chest. He has sensitive skin. The stupid purple shirt had been a bloody pain to get off of him without hurting too terribly, and the idiot wouldn't let me cut it.

"You need to take it easy. Just for a couple of days. He at least bruised your ribs." I stand up, heading to the medicine cabinet to get pain relievers.

Sherlock doesn't reply, just sits there on the couch, shirtless, staring at his lap.

I hand him the pills and he swallows them dry. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

It's a stupid question, really. Sherlock Holmes is the king of okay, even with injured ribs.

Shaking my head, I turn to go to bed, but then there are long fingers wrapped around my wrist. I look back.

His eyes drill into mine, silent, staring. Just as I start to get uncomfortable, he murmurs, "Thank you, John."

* * *

I wake up the next morning to find him smoking. He has the window cracked, and breathes out into the crisp city air. His dressing gown drapes over his skeletal form as he lounges against the window, and his cheeks hollow out as he takes a deep pull on the clandestine cigarette.

These are the moments when he makes me feel useless. Sherlock Holmes may be a brilliant man, but he's also a lonely one.


	5. Of Transience and Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession, Big Brother, and a pair of doused ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting another chapter just because I can. Hope you like it!

"We're out of milk."

I glance up from my bowl of pasta. Sherlock is sitting in his usual seat at Angelo's, looking out the window at nothing in particular. He's vacantly fiddling with the corner of his napkin, lounged in his chair in a way that shouldn't be possible for legs that long. He hasn't stolen the tomatoes on my side salad yet.

"Why are you telling me this?" I know perfectly well why he's telling me this.

"You know perfectly well why I'm telling you this.

Yep.

"I can't go shopping tonight, Sherlock. It's late."

He hums cryptically.

I roll my eyes.

Angelo refills our wine glasses, even though Sherlock hasn't touched his and I've only taken a sip of mine.

Sherlock glares at a passing couple through the window.

I glare at Sherlock.

It's been like this for the past week, ever since the gay bar incident. Sherlock brings up everything and nothing all at once, and I'm left to figure out what in the hell he's talking about. There haven't been any other cases, yet he doesn't seem overly bored. The bruising is still there, sending twinges through his rib cage when he moves too quickly. He doesn't talk about it and I don't ask, but he still comes to me every day and wordlessly lets me check his ribs to make sure they're healing. It's an odd thing, seeing Sherlock shirtless on a daily basis. Before the attack, that didn't happen often. Sure, there were days where he'd walk around in his sheet or duvet, but otherwise he was thoroughly covered.

The most miraculous thing about it all is the fact that he seems almost nervous about it. Whether it's the proximity or the embarrassment of actually being injured (which is ridiculous because I'm a doctor and have seen pretty much every stupid injury there is to see), he refuses to make eye contact, and barely speaks.

"Sherlock."

He tilts his head slightly in my direction, still looking outside. "Hm?"

I set down my fork and lean across the table. "Is something wrong? You've been acting odd for weeks. Odder than usual," I have to add.

I don't expect him to look at me. I expect him to huff and brush off my question like every other time I've asked. But he doesn't.

Pale, enigmatic eyes meet mine. He doesn't say anything immediately, but his face isn't closed off and I can read more than he verbalizes. It's like he's letting me read him before he even says a word. Something is bothering him. Obviously. It's not quite fear, more like extreme bewilderment. Like a puzzle he can't quite solve. Nothing dangerous, or I would (hopefully) know about it.

He blinks before speaking. "Mycroft isn't well."

If my eyebrows could have shot up any farther, they wouldn't be on my head anymore. "And you're  _actually concerned?"_

Sherlock looks like he's been slapped.

I mentally throttle myself. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. That's not what I—" Cutting myself off, I rub my face with my hands and look back at my friend.

"Contrary to popular belief, John, I do have a heart."

I gulp down some wine, wishing I could take back what I had said and wipe the hurt expression off of Sherlock's face. " _Shit,_ I know that. I know. I'm sorry."

We're both silent a moment.

"What does he…?"

"Cancer."

"Jesus."

Another silence. I figure out in the short seconds that this must have been what Mycroft had come to tell Sherlock all those weeks ago. It wasn't really the skull that had him upset.

This time, it's Sherlock to speak.

"It's not terminal, and he's getting treatments." He crumples his napkin in his hand, then adds quietly, "That seemed like something you'd want to know."

I think before I speak this time. "I seriously don't know what to say, Sherlock. No clue."

The detective actually quirks a small smile. "That's considerably better than your first comment."

I shake my head in self-deprecation. "I'm human. Mistakes. Sorry."

His face becomes empty again, only a touch of disquiet showing in his eyes. "Do stop apologizing."

Somehow, I get the feeling that the actions and the words have very little to do with each other.

Sherlock picks up his wine glass for the first time that night and drinks a good portion before pulling it away from his lips and studying it. "Mortality."

I can't be sure I've heard it. "Sorry, what?"

"I suppose we're all human in the end, John.

* * *

It affects him more than I thought it would, honestly. He's quieter, almost pensive. There's violin playing in the middle of the night, silence for days on end. Actually, it's pretty normal. Except it's not.

It starts with the morbid statements.

"Lestrade, you should call your mother before she's dead."

"Donovan, your cat died this morning. Cab hit her. Condolences."

"Mrs. Hudson, I do believe you should start getting your affairs in order."

Or my personal favorite:

"I suppose I ought to begin the search for a compatible female to carry my child. Someone has to take my place when I'm gone."

Then there was the day when he walked around London holding the skull (which we finally found in the bathroom cupboard, of all places) under his arm.

"Sherlock, you're going to scare someone with that thing."

"We're all skeletons, John. Walking, talking skeletons."

It goes without saying that Sherlock is burning bridges  _quickly._

* * *

The first time I see Mycroft since I found out, he looks fairly normal. Perhaps a bit paler, and Sherlock has no reason to tease him about his weight anymore, but overall, good.

Mycroft sits in my chair and sips tea.

Sherlock sits across from him and plucks his violin.

Mycroft watches his brother.

Sherlock looks at everything  _except_ his brother.

It goes pretty well, I think.

* * *

The problem, I believe, isn't that Mycroft has cancer. I suppose it's more the fact that his formerly immune and immortal brother has now become very much  _mortal._ There's something about that type of thing that reminds a man that he too will die someday.

Okay, so I've gone dark and morbid with this. I apologize. Sherlock is really not that sick and twisted about the whole thing.

I watch as he submerges a pair of ears into two beakers. "What the hell are you doing?"

He doesn't look up. "Cartilage."

That's all the answer I'm going to get.

Back to the former. To be completely honest, I haven't the slightest idea as to what's running through the genius's head. He seems well composed (as well composed as Sherlock Holmes can be between cases) and would never in his life come right out and say he's worried about his brother. I can tell he is, though. Sibling rivalry (if that's what it is) can only go so far, even for a "sociopath."

I deduce, in the end, though, Sherlock Holmes is realizing that he's actually human. He'd told me as much in Angelo's, though at the time I took it as him saying everyone makes mistakes. I think differently now. It's one thing to fake a death, and a completely different one to actually die.

Temporary versus permanent, transient versus eternal.

Now I'm just rambling.


	6. Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, anger, and games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter honestly wrote itself. It's one of my favorites, so I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Uploading a day early because I'm going to be busy tomorrow. Senior year. Bleh.
> 
> Warning: Very slight drug reference and brief coarse language.

"I'm going to die, John."

The statement scares me so fully that I drop the cup of tea I'd been carrying into the sitting room. The cup shatters, making a huge mess, but I ignore it and stare at Sherlock as he tunes his violin strings.

The detective glances at the mess at my feet and then up at me. "Mycroft's condition has made the inevitable, tangible."

I let out the breath I'd unknowingly been holding. "So you're not actually dying?"

A look of confusion crosses Sherlock's face. "We're all dying, John. But if you mean am I going to drop dead tomorrow, I do believe I have quite a few more years before I go six feet under."

I rub my face with a slightly trembling hand. "What the  _fuck,_ Sherlock. You can't just say things like that to people."

"Not good?"

"A bloody bit not good!"

"Interesting." He continues adjusting strings.

I ignore that and drop into my chair across from him. "Why does everything these days seem to revolve around death?"

"We solve murders, John. Things always revolve around death for us."

"You know what I mean!" What he'd said had shaken me far more than it should have. Having a man resurrected say that had brought a lot of unpleasant memories rushing back.

_My note…_

_Goodbye, John._

No. Nope. Taking a profound breath, I quickly shove that day away into the deepest recesses of my mind.

I become aware of Sherlock staring at me, concerned. "John, are you alright?"

"Good. Fine. Great." I stand up and walk to the kitchen.

A moment's hesitation, then Sherlock starts playing a graceful melody on the finely tuned instrument.

I grab a broom and dustpan. I have a mess to clean up.

* * *

People shed tears subconsciously. It happens more than they probably realize. What may seem as a simple case of watering eyes could very well be the body's way of releasing some buried torment deep inside the heart and mind.

I had thought about this once before. I'd found Sherlock sitting in his chair, fingers prayer-like under his chin, staring at the far wall. Nothing unusual there, but the slight redness about the eyes had caused me to give him a second look. At first, I worried that perhaps he'd found an old stash of something, but after a slightly closer study, realized the redness was due to the tracks of dried tears on the detective's cheekbones. His face was completely stoic, not at all distressed. The watering of his eyes was very simply probably because he'd stared too long without blinking, but it had sent me to thinking about the possibility of Sherlock Holmes shedding a genuine tear. If he ever does, no one ever sees. There are never witnesses. No proof. And that's what Sherlock always insists is necessary, is it not? Proof.

I cry. Not often, but I do. I cried when the nightmares of Afghanistan were too much. I cried when Sherlock took the plunge off the roof. I cried at his gravesite and I cried after he returned. Now, I don't usually have reasons to cry, but that doesn't stop me from waking up in the middle of the night with a wet face after re-living the day from hell, when I watched Sherlock's lithe body lean forward, arms spread, and plummet to the hard concrete. I almost always cry with those dreams. Messy, ridiculous tears will stain my face and dampen my pillow. I rarely make a sound, that I'm aware of. (After all, I'm sure if I cried out in my sleep, Sherlock would be sure to alert me to such behavior with a rude  _"Do keep quiet, John. I'm working on an experiment and your noise is far too distracting."_ )

I'm not embarrassed by it. Men who believe crying is a sign of weakness don't know how much of a release it is. I truly don't believe England will fall simply because my eyes leak a bit.

I wake up from one of those dreams, this one ending with a sickening  _thump_  instead of my customary scream of  _"Sherlock!"_  As usual, my pillow is damp. I've been sweating heavily and I have a feeling my sheets are also less than dry. I breathe in deeply a few times, calming myself down. I know they're just dreams; they're only in my head. Sometimes I convince myself by peeking out of my room and down the staircase a bit, if not to see Sherlock himself, then at least evidence of him.

An empty teacup.

Scattered case files.

An empty packet of nicotine patches on the floor.

Tonight, however, I choose to go down to the kitchen and get some tea.

He's sitting at his microscope, studying something intently.

"Bad dream?"

Of course he knows. He always knows. I don't let it bother me.

I hum in reply, preparing tea at—I glance at the clock—three forty-two in the morning.

"Something to do with me?"

I glance at him. "Did I say your name again?"

He shakes his head slightly, still looking through the magnifier. "Not this time. You're just more likely to come down, or at least out of your room, if it's about me." He pulls a face. "Probably making sure I'm still here."

I shake my head slightly at the expression on his pale face. "That's not a good way to treat this whole thing. You destroyed my life after you left. You can't just act like it's an annoying little occurrence in the basement of your mind palace." I sigh and pour my tea. It's the middle of the night and not the time for this conversation.

Thunder rumbles outside. I hadn't realized it was raining. How bloody typical.

When I look up, Sherlock's eyes are boring into mine, his mouth slightly agape. Unusual.

"You are welcome to think whatever you like about how I remember that time, but I will tell you now, nothing about it was  _easy_  and the only annoying thing about it was that I was forced away from home and all that I have acquired."

I have a flashback to another fight at another time in another location.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

Like hell it did.

I stir my drink idly, turning to face him fully. "Oh yes. Your experiments and cases. How sweet to miss them." The spite comes from nowhere. I hadn't been angry seconds ago. Slightly annoyed, yes, but not angry.

Sherlock's face is confused and perhaps even hurt, if I use enough imagination.

"John, listen—"

"No,  _you_ listen." Suddenly the quiet resentment isn't enough. Slamming the mug onto the counter, I step closer. "You  _died_ , Sherlock. Do you even understand what that means to normal people? To me? You were what brought me out of that hellhole I had to call a life and gave me purpose again by running around London solving murders. Then that was  _gone_  and I was left with an empty flat and  _nothing else._  Nothing at all. Fine, if all you cared about was the work and the experiments and the fucking  _games_ , th —"

But then I stop. Because Sherlock is now towering over me, a look so full of pain and malice I can hardly recognize him. When he speaks, his voice is lower than I've ever heard it, and chilling to the bone. "Don't ever mention  _games_  again.  _Games_  are what drove me away.  _Games_  were what Moriarty played. They almost got you killed  _twice_  and succeeded in killing me. So don't you dare mention games, John. Not to me."

My anger lessens. This is the first, and probably only, time Sherlock has ever spoken to me in an even remotely sentimental way. And I've learned something.

Sherlock Holmes is completely, bitterly done with games.

He's breathing heavily, barely a foot away. I calmly pick up the tea I'd prepared, then take his hand and place his long fingers around the mug handle.

"No more games, Sherlock." I meet his gaze, and it's as if he's let down a wall as his face falls into a quiet, sorrowful expression.

I leave him holding the cup of tea in the middle of the kitchen at five-'til-four in the morning.

And if I cry that night, no one ever need know, because there is no proof.


	7. Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A corpse, whiskey, and an umbrella.

I've always liked Molly Hooper. As a friend, that is. At first, I thought her to be just another girl taken in by Sherlock's greatness (in every sense of the word), but after that ill-famed Christmas long ago now, I realized she had a spine of steel under all that sweetness. How could you not when dealing with Sherlock Holmes? For heaven's sake, she even helped the man fake his death and succeeded in keeping it a secret. That takes an indescribable amount of strength.

I'd been furious when I'd found out. How could  _she_ know, but not myself? The man who put up with all of Sherlock's shit and chased him across London on a daily basis? But then I'd realized that, without Molly, I probably wouldn't have Sherlock back today. Her part in the extravagant plan had been a crucial one, and Sherlock knew that.

"Hello, Molly," I say as Sherlock, Lestrade, and myself barge into her morgue.

She smiles. "Hello, John. Sherlock. Greg." With a quiet movement, she pulls the covering off of the man on her slab to allow Sherlock to examine it.

Sherlock barely says two words to her as he examines the body, his back stiff. Lestrade stands next to me and we give him space as he scuttles about the corpse, a bit like a ghost crab.

"You two doing okay, then?" Lestrade asks suddenly, pulling my thoughts away from comparing Sherlock to crustaceans.

I briefly hum. "What? Of course." I drop my voice slightly, aware that Sherlock can probably still hear us. "Why do you ask?"

He suddenly looks slightly uncomfortable. "Well, I…ah, well I just thought that with everything that's happened you two would—"

"We're fine," I interrupt.

He nods and turns back to watching Sherlock.

My eyes drift back to the consulting detective as well, but my mind wanders in a different direction.

Are we truly okay? Is  _Sherlock_ truly okay? The way he talks (or doesn't talk) about his absence makes it seem he is, but taking down an entire network of criminals couldn't have been easy. He certainly wants me to believe it was.

My mind flits over our confrontation several nights before. Sherlock's pure hatred for Moriarty's games had accidentally erupted out of his mouth in a truly telling moment of openness. The look in his eyes as he spit the words out was like nothing I'd ever seen before. That was Sherlock, and that had been the truth. Not necessarily the words themselves, but in those eyes.

Sherlock straightens and I watch as he feels a brief twinge pass through his chest. He brushes it off so quickly neither Lestrade or Molly notice, but he's also gone pale. "I believe you're looking for the uncle." That's when I hear the odd tone in his voice. "I need to go." He quickly strides to the door.

Lestrade's face screws up in confusion. "Why the uncle?"

Sherlock turns briefly and throws his hands up. "He was in the observatory!" With a brief look in my direction, he sweeps out. If I hadn't known better, I would have said it was desperation.

I give Lestrade a shrug and follow.

* * *

After Sherlock unceremoniously announced that he was going to die, all of the morbid statements and odd thoughts about death stopped. It was as if he had come to terms with it, and after stating it, locked it away. That was that.

I watch him openly through the kitchen doorway from where I'm standing in the living room, sipping my tea. He's bent over an experiment, hair that's getting a bit too long falling over his forehead and into his eyes. He keeps brushing at it furiously, and for a moment, as he eyes a pair of scissors nearby, I worry he's about to give himself a butchering haircut. Then he looks straight at me.

"Would you stop staring?" he says, harsh voice slicing into the lazy air.

I have to pause a moment. He didn't demand,  _"Do stop staring, John"_ as he normally would. He had phrased it a bit more like a request. Though that request still brooked no argument, it was unusual wording for the man.

I apparently pause too long, because he turns back to his work with a huff.

Unconcerned, I continue taking inventory of my flatmate's appearance. White dress shirt, rolled up slightly over his forearms and just a bit too tight. Usual black slacks and dress shoes. His long fingers are curled around a pen with one hand, jotting something down quickly on a piece of paper nearby (or at least I  _hope_ he's writing on paper). His other hand rests on his knee, fingers tapping the rhythm to a tune only the detective can hear. I briefly wonder if he's composing subconsciously.

My eyes narrow and I go over the scene before me again. "Why are you writing things down?" His mind is his notepad.

He shrugs.

I sip my tea.

* * *

I let a few days go by before I bring it up. Things are off, and I have the feeling they have been since he came back.

The truth is, I'm not over it. I'm not sure I'll  _ever_ be completely over him leaving. He was gone for almost three years before he showed his face again. In that time, I'd done my pathetic part in moving on, no matter how difficult it was. I was working, dating (if two awful, hour-long dates count), and pulling my life back together. It had been horrible, considering the first time I was in need of putting myself together was when I had met Sherlock. He had been the thing to bring me back to life. Hell, he had  _saved_ my life.

And now he's back, and there are so many things we have been ignoring and  _refusing_ to face, I'm not entirely sure we fully realize they are there. But our dynamic has changed. The atmosphere surrounding us has shifted.

If I had to pinpoint a moment I knew this, it would have been the night he returned, the first time he ever initiated physical contact in more than a friendly way, more than one of his fleeting touches at the height of his excitement over a case.

I had been overwhelmed with it all, sitting hollowly on the sofa, my head in my hands. He had sat next to me, put a big, warm hand on my back, and everything…clicked. When I say  _everything,_ I'm not even sure what  _everything_ is. It had just felt right, complete. Whatever  _it_ was.

It takes me the entire day to finally scrape up the courage to talk to him about it.

Grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, along with two glasses, I make my way into the sitting room. I find Sherlock lounging on the sofa. He's not in his mind palace, I can tell, and he has his hands folded neatly on top of his flat stomach. When I get closer, he raises a hand and I hand him the tumbler. I sit on the coffee table and begin filling our glasses.

"I know that you've been trying to sum up the courage all day to talk to me about something." The detective stares at the liquid in his tumbler as he speaks.

"Sherlock—"

"No, John. Listen." He takes a sip, then sits up, swiveling until we're almost knee-to-knee. "Everything has been different since I came back. I know that. I threw the proverbial wrench in your plan for moving on—"

"I never had a plan," I break in quietly, staring into the depths of the cup in my hand.

The detective falls silent.

Chuckling ruefully, I take a pull on the burning liquid. "I'm not even sure I was going to successfully move on." When I look up, Sherlock is staring at me with an unreadable expression. I sigh. "I just… Sherlock, are you okay?"

His eyes narrow slightly. "I'm fine, John."

I shake my head. "No, I'm not talking about right now. I mean, in general. Are you alright?"

After a long, silent moment, he sucks in a breath. "If you're talking about the ribs—"

"No, I'm not talking about the bloody ribs, you idiot!" I blurt.

Sherlock doesn't react to the anger, but instead studies me silently as if unsure how to continue. His eyes are steely.

"I know you don't  _observe,_ John, but did you even bother to  _look_ at the bodyin the morgue the other day?" he says harshly.

"What do you mean?"

"He looked like you!" he shouts suddenly, eyes wide, spilling whiskey over the edge of his glass. It sloshes onto the floor in a little puddle between our feet.

I remain still and silent as he sets his cup on the floor, rubbing both hands roughly through his hair and groaning angrily.

"He looked like you," he whispers before getting up and storming into his room, slamming the door.

The force of it sends ripples flickering through the remaining whiskey in his glass.

* * *

The next morning as I leave the flat (after waking up to find Sherlock gone), there is a black sedan waiting in front of 221. Sighing, I climb in and watch the passing scenery as the driver takes me to another abandoned factory. Anthea taps away on her phone, not even looking up as I exit the vehicle. Mycroft greets me with a cold, feigned smile, umbrella in hand.

Damn that umbrella.

"Doctor," he says as I approach him.

"British Government," I say in response.

He gives me a smile that clearly means  _I am not amused by your feeble attempt at humor._ He and his brother share that look.

The doctor in me can't help but give him a quick once-over. He looks remarkably well for a cancer patient, if not a little hollow around the eyes from weight loss. "You're looking well."

A brief nod. "I've had the best of care."

I smirk. Typical Mycroft.

He pauses for a moment and we're both quiet. Finally, he speaks.

"It has come to my attention that my brother has not been entirely himself lately," he states bluntly, gaze unwavering. "Have you any ideas as to the reason for this?"

"You're as much in the dark as I am about this," I say.

His eyebrows lift slightly. "And who said I am in the dark?"

I tilt my head slightly in confusion. "Then why did you—"

"You see, John," he interrupts, "I merely wanted to know if you are aware of the things my brother is dealing with right now. For his sake."

I bristle at this. "Is he in danger?"

Another fake smile. "No, no. Quite the opposite. I have people taking immense precaution to ensure this."

"Of course you do," I mumble.

He taps his brolly before continuing. "It seems my dear brother obtained several… _attachments_  before his simulated demise."

I step closer, angry now. "Don't you fucking dare bring that up again. I am fully aware what lead to his…absence, and there is no reason to relive or  _retell_ it." My voice is low and my hand has never been steadier.

There is a long, drawn out pause this time before the elder Holmes finally speaks.

"Caring is most assuredly not an advantage, as I've told my bother." He shifts his umbrella into the other hand and swings it around once before continuing. "But with you, John, I don't believe I'd call caring a disadvantage for Sherlock."

I wait for him to finish, and when he doesn't, ask, "What would you call it then?"

He smiles, and it's in his eyes. "Reality."


	8. The Case of the Aromatic Heiress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perfume, a bathtub, and a little something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me hell. Without the help of dancingtomumfordinmymindpalace, it wouldn't be nearly where it is now. And I'm still not happy with it. Writer's block be damned.
> 
> Just a little disclaimer for myself: My main focus isn't the cases or whatnot, though that is a main part of their lives. So while there is a case in this, please excuse the fact that it's shoddy and not very interesting. It really isn't the main point I'm trying to put across.
> 
> Also, thank you thank you thank you for the lovely reviews. I enjoy so much hearing from you beautiful people. I apologize if I don't always respond, just know that I read and appreciate every single one.
> 
> Warnings: This chapter contains brief mild torture. Nothing really graphic, mainly just remembering it.

The life I had accidentally limped into is anything  _but_ stress-free. However, there are redeeming qualities, and nothing is more cathartic for me than watching Sherlock work. The energy that zaps through the air as he dashes back and forth, insulting Anderson and explaining  _again_ to Lestrade how the crime had played out— _Isn't it obvious_ —helps to fuel me with the strength to continue on the way I am. He's like a giant conductor of electricity, or a brightly burning star, and the people around him are the wilting flowers bursting back to life under his, however unintentional, care.

I've gone all weird and soppy, haven't I? I've made myself cringe. Let me try this again:

I stand near Lestrade as Sherlock goes about his usual observations. It's unusually cold out today and my fingers are all but numb in my gloves. I'm extraordinarily grateful when Donovan comes over with two cups of piping hot coffee. The steam from the cup creates a foggy barrier between my eyes and Sherlock's as he glances up. His eyes narrow briefly, then he's back to studying the victim, Abigale Rochester. He probably doesn't even recognize the biting cold that is turning his nose and ears pink.

Lestrade seems content to stay back and sip his beverage patiently while waiting for Sherlock's deductions.

"John."

I look up from where I had been studying the dark contents of my cup. We haven't talked much since his outburst the night before. Fortunately, Lestrade had texted us this morning about a new case before the tension between us could explode in our faces. "Hm?"

"Come. I want your opinion." Sherlock sits back on his heels, studying the body.

Mumbling about being summoned like a bloody housedog, I make my way to where Sherlock is.

"Does anything seem…off about the scent of her skin?"

I glare at him for a moment. "I'm not going to sniff a dead person, Sherlock."

He gives me a look that says  _Come now, we both know you'll do it because I'm fantastic._ When this doesn't immediately work, he groans in disgust. "John! I want to see if you recognize it."

Taking a deep, calming breath through my nose, I sniff the girl's wrist. "It smells like Mrs. Hudson," I say, surprised and a little disconcerted.

The detective grins. "Exactly what I thought." He stands and swivels towards Lestrade. "So why is a young woman like this wearing a perfume that so obviously belongs on a woman three times her age?"

I start to think that an awful large amount of cases lately seem to revolve around perfume.

Lestrade shrugs. "Why?" he asks, indulging the slightly deranged man in front of him.

Sherlock rubs his hands together. "I have no idea."

* * *

We break into the girl's apartment, and Sherlock immediately begins searching the place. I poke around a bit, but mostly just keep an ear listening for the police. I turn to watch the detective as I hear the fluttering of papers. He had found the victim's receipts—many,  _many_ receipts—and is now rifling through them quickly.

"She must have been rather obsessive to keep all of those," I comment.

Without looking up, Sherlock hums. "Not obsessive,  _careful._ Nevertheless, it's our gain."

After a few more minutes, he finally holds one up. "Ha! Now we have something."

Before I can ask what that something is, he's out of the flat and on the street. I jog to catch up and we get in a cab.

After a quick visit and questioning at a local perfume shop, we head back to the flat, Sherlock contemplative.

I sit in my armchair, reading the day's paper while Sherlock lies on the couch, palms pressed together beneath his chin.

I pause in my reading when I catch a glimpse of a name in the obituaries. "Did you hear about the elder Mrs. Rochester's passing? Says here she died a week ago."

"That's it! John, you're brilliant!" Sherlock suddenly exclaims, jumping up. He runs to the door and grabs his coat and scarf, throwing them on before continuing out.

"Do you want me to…?" I lower the daily.

"Won't be but a little while, John!" The door slams shut.

Rolling my eyes, I go back to reading the newspaper and wait for my flatmate to return.

* * *

He watches as the tall one leaves. He knows where he's going and it's only a matter of time before the watcher is found out.

Silently, he hurries across the street to the door of 221 and knocks briefly. The landlady isn't there. She left an hour ago for the direction of the grocery.

There's the sound of feet on the staircase and then the door opens, revealing a short man with graying hair and smiling eyes. "Can I help you?"

Without hesitation, the watcher jabs a needle into the man's arm and watches as the startled expression relaxes to one of confused disillusionment. "I believe you can, doctor."

* * *

There is only so much pain the human body can take.

As a doctor and an ex-soldier, I know for a fact I'm not anywhere near the end of my pain threshold, but that doesn't mean the thin stripes carved into my arms aren't  _really fucking painful._ They aren't serious, nothing I could bleed out from (more like giant fucking paper cuts than anything), but I can feel the trickle of blood slipping down my face and dangerously close to my eye from when my attacker had slammed my head into to side of the bathtub earlier.

"I'm only going to ask this one more time." The man, who is hell bent on his mission, roughly shakes my drug-addled body. "How. Much. Does. He. Know."

He's unhinged, not really making any logical decisions. There is no need for the face bashing and the knife slashing. Or the bitterly cold water.

The grip he has on my arms sends jolts of shocking pain through my drugged brain as if it had sensitized every nerve ending. He hasn't even bothered binding me. Considering the fact that I feel as if I couldn't toss a noodle, that probably wasn't too big of an oversight.

My head lolls forward and I mumble, "I don't know." I  _do_  know what's coming next, however. I can only pray Sherlock comes in time.

With an angry sound, my captor jerks my arms farther behind me, nearly dislocating a shoulder as the movement stretches the delicate knife wounds apart, and shoves my head back into my own bathtub, full of water. Whatever drug he'd jabbed into my arm earlier had made me weak and unable to fight back.

This has to be the poor girl's murderer. He smells like Mrs. Hudson, too, although I don't know what that means. Sherlock must have figured it out before rushing out of the flat earlier.

I wait for him to pull me back out, like before, but he doesn't, doesn't, doesn't and I start to wonder how long I can hold on until I pass out and ultimately don't wake up.

What a boring way to die.

Lungs. Burning. Need air.  _Must have air._ I can't hold my breath any longer, can't control my body's need for oxygen. My brain stutters to a stop.

I wait to feel nothing, and then…

Coughing.

Breathing.

_Air._

My body is shaking violently with the shuddering coughs as my lungs try to dispel the water from them. While I become aware of my surroundings, I recognize a familiar scent and the touch of a rough coat against my face.

"John. John! Are you alright?" It's Sherlock. His voice is panicked, even more so than the day by the pool. "Answer me!"

I try to speak, but cough instead. Holding up a weak hand to tell him to give me a moment, I'm surprised when a much larger, warmer one engulfs my small one and grips tightly.

"I'm okay, Sherlock," I finally wheeze.

"Oh, god." His voice is wavering and I realize I'm not the only one shaking now as he studies my face. "Oh god, oh god." He lightly touches my forehead and his fingertips come away red. He shudders and squeezes his eyes shut.

It feels as if his entire body wraps around me then as he pulls me so that my back is against his chest. We're sitting on the cold tile floor, both soaking wet and shivering, and I have absolutely no desire to move. Not sure I can, really.

I see my attacker sprawled out on the floor outside the bathroom, unconscious. At least…I hope he's unconscious. Sherlock must have pulled him out of the small room in order to get to me.

Sherlock has an arm wrapped around my chest, and with my free hand I grip his forearm tightly. "Sherlock," I breathe, panting in deep pulls of air. "Sherlock." There's not really a reason to say his name, but it grounds me, helps me realize the severity of the situation and all that could have been lost. I say it simply because I still can.

His head drops and our cheeks brush, his curls tickling my forehead and ear. I turn my head to say something, but…

I can't speak.

Trembling lips have stopped words as they crush against mine in a bruising, desperate kiss. It's shocking.  _Sherlock…what?_ Thoughts tumble together in my mind as it scrambles to catch up. I can't seem to get past the repetitive mantra of  _Sherlock Holmes is kissing me. Sherlock Holmes is kissing me?_

It's rough, not at all tender, as if he's trying to meld our mouths together. He doesn't try to take it any further than lips against lips, and for a brief moment of clarity, I wonder if he's ever kissed someone before. It's sloppy, uncoordinated. Everything Sherlock isn't.

Eyes sliding shut, my lips move slightly of their own accord against his, and the detective lets out a little sound before breaking away. He's breathing so heavily, I'm afraid he'll hyperventilate. His eyes are enormous.

"John…oh god. John, I—" He cuts himself off as he jumps to his feet and flees the room, leaving me to prop myself against the bathtub to keep from falling over.

Not to mention abandoning me with an unconscious murderer a few feet away.

I flinch when his door slams shut.

* * *


	9. Johann Sebastian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some thoughts, a dream, and sunlight.

Some of you may be hoping I start this bit by saying I chased after Sherlock and shagged him dry.

I didn't.

Even if I had wanted to (which I'm  _not_ saying I did), I'm not sure it would have been possible at that moment in time. I mean, I was  _dying_ a minute before, had been tortured,  _and_  I'd been drugged. I have valid excuses.

The kiss…well,  _The Kiss_ had been more or less monumental. And horribly revealing, I believe. It also left me awfully confused, on so many levels. Where do I even start? Straight man, previously assumed asexual man, near-death experience, last-minute rescue...

A large part of me is inclined to believe it was just the prospect of losing me hitting Sherlock hard in the face with a frying pan that caused him to lip-assault me like that. But honestly, Sherlock Holmes  _lip locking?_ I had never even allowed myself to imagine it. The man is so detached.

He had surprisingly soft, warm lips, though.

And really, isn't that part of my problem? I've been dating and sleeping with women my entire life. (Okay, so maybe there was that one time in Afghanistan, but I was  _horny_ and a man only has so many options in the middle of the desert and…I'll just leave it at that.) Then Sherlock had kissed me, and it was different. Completely different. And I'm not talking stubble-burn-in-the-morning or oh-god-it-has-a-penis different. It was emotionally explosive. And that's just a bit too cliché, so please ignore that sentence.

It makes me slightly uncomfortable with myself, honestly. A heterosexual man in his early forties suddenly realizing he has feelings for another man? Does that even happen? Well, I suppose it does, of course. But this is  _me,_ and the other man is  _Sherlock._ It makes it feel like so much more uncharted territory, because there has never been a  _John Watson and Sherlock Holmes_  before us.

Minutes after Sherlock fled the scene, Lestrade arrived with an ambulance and I had been forced to endure the rest of the evening in A&E. It had been exhausting, and Sherlock hadn't even bothered to come with me. Despite some light pain medication, I hadn't been able to sleep well that night.

The next day had been slightly tense at first, almost as if we were both trying to feel each other out. I had been up for several hours before Sherlock snuck out of his room.

Slipping a look his direction over my coffee mug, I watched as he fluttered about the flat in his pyjamas and dressing gown. His bare feet were silent against the creaky wooden floors in a way that almost had me checking my ears. No one else could move that quietly around a flat as old as this.

At first, he refused to look in my direction as he began the setup on one of his experiments, but after a bit, he began giving me little peeks whenever he thought I wasn't looking. I always was.

I'm about eighty-nine percent sure that during one of those shared looks, a silent agreement was made.

So we ignored what had happened.

* * *

The murderer's motive had been quite simple and typical, actually, much to Sherlock's disappointment (though he never said as much out loud, probably because I had almost been drowned by said murderer). Mrs. Rochester's son, Harold, had killed her for his inheritance that he assumed he would receive through her will. However, the money had gone to the younger daughter, Abigale. He had been furious, but probably wouldn't have killed his sister if she hadn't found out the truth about their mother's death. The bastard had been bleeding-from-his-ears wealthy for about a day before Sherlock caught him.

Apparently, Mrs. Hudson wears the same scent as Mrs. Rochester had.

The detective had really scrambled the guy's brains when he knocked Harold out. He had to be taken to the hospital to check for severe head trauma.

I didn't really care.

Sherlock and I gave Lestrade our statements and pushed the entire incident out of our thoughts.

* * *

_Water._

_Splashing._

_A door._

_A muffled voice._

_"I don't know."_

_John._

_Death._

_Crime._

_Criminal._

_Consulting Criminal._

"You're insane."

"You've gotta admit that's sexier."

"Off you pop."

"You're just getting that now?"

"Thank you."

"I may be on the side of the angels…"

"You're ordinary."

"…but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

"Aren't ordinary people adorable?"

"You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

"Your friends will die if you don't."

"What…would you like me…to make him say…next?"

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"You're insane."

"Gottle o' geer."

"Stop it."

"I gave you my number."

"Gottle o' geer."

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket…"

"Gottle o' geer."

"…or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Did I really make such a fleeting impression?"

"Doofus!"

"Don't be silly."

"Gottle o' geer."

_Stop it!_

"I don't like getting my hands dirty."

"I'm a specialist, you see…"

"Gottle o' geer."

"…like you!"

"Gottle o' geer."

_STOP IT!_

"You're me!"

"Dear Jim…"

"Consulting criminal."

"Johann Sebastian would be appalled."

_Consulting criminal._

_Brilliant._

"Brilliant."

"Now you're in my way!"

"So take this as a friendly warning, my dear."

"Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain."

"Although, I have  _loved_ this."

"I  _will_ stop you."

"Easy-peasy."

"This little game of ours."

_So don't you dare mention games, John._

"You can talk, Johnny-boy."

"That's what people  _DO!"_

_Everyone._

"Boring!"

"People have died."

"I  _told_ you how this ends."

"Sherlock, run!"

"Good, very good."

"…The man with the key is king."

"Isn't he sweet?"

_Everyone._

"They're so touchingly loyal."

"Oh, let me guess."

"Sherlock, run!"

_Everyone._

"I get killed."

"I'll  _burn_ you."

"I'm glad no one saw that."

"I'll burn the  _heart_ out of you."

"Oh, Christ."

_Everyone._

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock."

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool."

"Westwood!"

_Everyone._

"But we both know that's not quite true."

"The fall."

"That… _thing_ that you did…"

"Goodbye, John."

_Falling's just like flying._

"And honey, you should see me in a crown."

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

"No, you won't!"

_Except there's a more permanent destination._

"I'm fine."

"Are you alright?"

_IOU._

"Sherlock."

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. Fine."

_Gottle o' geer._

"People might talk."

"Sherlock!"

"People do little else."

_Gottle o' geer._

"I'm sooo changeable!"

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

_Gottle o' geer._

"You can't be allowed to continue."

_Gottle o' geer._

"I'll burn the  _heart_ out of you."

_Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer…_

**_STOP IT!_ **

* * *

Eyes open.

Reach for weapon.

Pause.

No immediate threat.

Rushing heartbeat.

Listen.

_Sherlock._

I'm already down the stairs before I realize what I've even heard, ignoring the aches from my assault two days prior. I think it was a scream, though it could have been a name. Or anything, really.

Sherlock's door is closed, and a distant part of me is surprised that the man actually decided to sleep. Before I can second-guess if this is the right thing to do, I open the door and step inside.

The detective is sitting up, hands braced behind him, breathing heavily and panicked. His legs are twisted tightly in the sheets and his hair is sweaty and disheveled. It's hard to tell in the dark, but for a disorienting moment I think he's shaking. His head jerks in my direction when he hears me.

"John." His eyes are huge.

I step a bit closer. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

He shakes his head viciously. I nearly stop breathing as I watch him reach out a long arm until his trembling fingertips barely rest on my stomach.

We stay there for several minutes. I can hear Sherlock's unsteady inhales and exhales as he drops his head forward.

"Nightmare?"

"Yes." He presses his palm flat against my abdomen where I have a dark bruise from being shoved over the edge of the tub.

No  _Obviously, John_. Just  _Yes._

In all the times I had been plagued by nightmares, I had never imagined Sherlock having the same problem. Did he struggle in his sleep when he was away? I swallow heavily. Did he ever wake up screaming in a dank hotel room in some dodgy part of a city? Did the darkness of the room swallow him, make him feel captured in a spider's web of terror?

Slowly, not wanting to alarm the terrified detective, I wrap my hand around the delicate wrist close to my body.

"It's okay."

His shoulders shudder, curls quivering against his forehead. It takes me a moment to realize he's laughing. Bitter. Empty. Hollow.

"It's really not," he says.

His fingers suddenly fist into the fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer until his forehead rests on my chest. I can feel his hot breaths through the thin fabric as he slowly gets hold of himself.

I squeeze his wrist lightly. "You're home now, Sherlock. It really is."

With a heavy sigh, he curls his other hand into the shirt above my hip. "You didn't need to check on me."

"Of course I did."

"I don't need you here," he murmurs into my stomach.

We're still there when the sun creeps in through the window and caresses us with its golden touch.

* * *

"Tell me you've never fancied ventriloquism."

I glance up from my laptop. Sherlock has his legs crossed, resting the bow back across his shoulder as he cradles his violin. "I think any fancy for it was effectively extinguished at the pool with Moriarty." I shake my head. "Gottle o' geer isn't quite so amusing anymore."

Sherlock's entire frame snaps up as if pulled by an invisible string and he looks at me, alarmed. His is the face of one who has just witnessed a ghost.

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the filler-ish chapter. Hopefully we're getting closer to some more substantial things. ;)
> 
> Also, I apologize if the Moriarty stuff is just really getting over-milked. I promise it's not going to be all Moriarty-centric like this. :) -C


	10. Something About Amusco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some laundry, a train, and a dream?

There were little moments, extended looks that hadn't been exactly the same before. There had alwaysbeen the eye contact after a case, or a fit of giggles in the hallway, but this was different. It felt unique.

The looks were quieter, the giggles deeper, the mood more sober. The post-case high was still there, but in a different form. Words were spoken in slight touches of a hand to a shoulder, or a visual connection between blue eyes and fathomless ones.

There was that one time when Sherlock rested his palm on my arm when I got agitated after Donavan had called him a freak one too many times. That had earned several looks.

There was also that time I carded my fingers through his hair on pure instinct as I had passed him sitting in his chair. I practically ran out of the room once I'd realized what I had done.

We never talk about those moments.

* * *

I do the laundry.

I'm not entirely sure when it happened, and this activity is most assuredly  _not_ something that flatmates do (especially when said flatmates are two blokes), but at some undefined moment I had looked down at the clothes in my hands as I unloaded the washer and realized the pyjama bottoms weren't mine. I don't really mind. Most of Sherlock's clothes go to the cleaners anyway.

I cook.

This just came as natural progression. Sherlock certainly won't make himself food and the man barely eats anyway, so when I'm making toast, I make double. When I make soup, I force Sherlock to eat a bowl. Consequently, I end up making the tea too. I'm by no means an excellent cook, but my food passes decently and does what it's supposed to.

I guess what I'm saying with this is that Sherlock and I have always been a little bit… _more_ than flatmates. At least, conventionally. There has been an underlying feeling of connection since that first day in Barts. Or sitting in Angelo's with a candle flickering between us for the first time. Or when I shot a man threatening to end the genius I barely knew but knew I wanted to know, if that makes sense.

It's a bit odd for me, really.

But most of London already thinks we sleep together anyway, so what's a bit of laundry between two friends?

* * *

"That was just maddeningly uninteresting."

I snort and continue scratching out details of this case on a notepad, trying to make my doctor's handwriting legible despite the movement of the train.

Only Sherlock Holmes could find a case about two corpses found in exact replicas of de Amusco's  _Anatomia del corpo humano_  uninteresting. Complete with the sheath (if that's what you could call it) of their own skin clutched in their hands. They had been brutally murdered, really. Mutilation was a very light word for what had been done to those poor souls.

And yet, here the detective sits, bored and gracefully draped in his seat.

"When is someone going to do something brilliant, John?" he whines, staring out the window at the rapidly passing scenery.

"As soon as you stop being so impatient," I reply flatly, without removing my gaze from my writing.

There's a long moment of silence, so I glance up. He's staring at me blankly, almost as if he's trying to pick apart a puzzle of some sort.

"What?" I finally ask.

"I annoy you."

I blink. " _What?"_

"From the first time we met, you have made remarks such as that complaining about seemingly unsavory attributes that I possess, yet continue to indulge me with the cooking and cleaning and other household duties I cannot find the time to take part in. You say words that imply that you may be upset or frustrated, but the tone in which you voice them belie the words completely. I am fully aware that I am difficult to live with, and yet you insist on staying." He shifts so he's leaning forward a bit more. "But it raises the question. Do I annoy you?"

I stare at him for a moment, trying to absorb the rapid speech he had just laid out in front of me. "I thought we agreed you wouldn't deduce me out loud?"

"Observation, John," he corrects. His face hasn't changed.

Sucking in a deep breath, I set aside the notepad. "Do you really think I would stay with you if you truly annoyed me?"

"No."  
"Then why would you ask something like that?"

A little crease forms between his brows. "I already told you—"

I hold up a hand. "No, no you didn't." Pulling that same hand down my face, I sigh. "Sherlock, do you want me to move out?"

He blinks and his mouth falls open slightly. Shock isn't something one usually associates with Sherlock. "Most certainly not."

There is another long pause after that as I mull thoughts over in my head. "Are you afraid I'll leave?" I finally ask quietly.

He stares back at me for mere seconds before turning and looking out the window again. "Of course not."

I pick up my papers again. "Then there's no need to ever ask that again, is there?"

He hums noncommittally.

* * *

The flat is cold and quiet when we return. We both shed our coats and hang them up without comment, then Sherlock takes to his usual position on the couch as I set about to make some tea.

"There's a bit of a chill. Would you build a fire, Sherlock?" I call into the other room. I don't expect him to, but it's worth asking.

I'm surprised when, a few moments later, I hear the bustling and clatters that come with preparation for a fire.

The flames are beginning to grow and dance as I make my way back to the sitting room, handing Sherlock a cup where he's sitting in front of the fireplace. His position has him right at the foot of my chair, but I sit anyway, quite past worrying about physical proximity at this point.

I'm tired. Bone-weary, really. My skin hums with the need for sleep. The heat from the fire gradually seeps into the room, casting a warm glow over everything, making the skull look ominous in shadows, and it doesn't take long before my body has melted into my chair.

Sherlock sits near my feet with his arms wrapped around his drawn-up legs. At some point, he had scooted close enough to rest his head on the edge of the chair, and his back is barely brushing my calf.

It's comfortable.

He reaches down and reclaims his cup, taking a sip and staring aimlessly into the fire. I watch him for a moment before resting my head on my hand and allowing my eyes to drift shut.

I hear him moving, and this is just another step in the natural progression of things. Just another thing we've never gotten around to doing, because that time in the bathroom doesn't count. Not really.

I open my eyes as hands, warmed by the cup of tea, rest lightly on both of my thighs, just above the knees. Blinking lazily at him, I'm remotely aware that this position puts our faces at level heights. I part my legs a bit more. Not to entice, but to allow his slim frame closer to me as I straighten and lean forward a bit.

He's staring at me, both hands slightly moving against my thighs. Those eyes are heavy-lidded and dark, and he studies my face. Hair, forehead, brows, eyes, nose, down to the chin, back up to my mouth.

I keep my touch gentle as my fingertips lightly brush against the underside of his jaw, urging his gaze up until it reaches mine again.

I smile. "Hello."

He looks bewildered for a brief moment before a hesitant smile twitches the corners of his mouth.

The first touch is soft. Hesitant. Again, my mind wonders if he's ever done this before. I press my lips more firmly against his and he sucks in a breath as he moves forward until my spine rests against the back of the chair again. His hands move to the armrests and I feel a knee brace itself against the furniture between mine.

It's comfortable.

This is nothing that needs to be taken further today. It's not demanding. I can hear Sherlock's soft noises as he moves his lips against mine, still not much more than a chaste brush of lips. And it doesn't need to be.

It's brief and warm and I'm beginning to think it could very well be a dream.

But that's okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Juan Valverde de Amusco's Anatomia del corpo humano is real. It's an interesting drawing of the human body from the 1500s. A bit morbidly fascinating.
> 
> Comments appreciated! :) -C


	11. Viam pacis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technicolor, friendship, and broken glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm uploading this chapter early because I'm going to be gone for the rest of the week. I may or may not post another on Saturday (though I probably will).
> 
> The title of this chapter is Latin for "the way to peace" according to Google Translate.

I wake up the next morning with a twinge in my neck and a consulting detective's curly head resting against my knee. The coals in the fireplace are still glowing and emitting a bit of heat.

Sherlock is still in the same position he was in last night—sitting on the floor and facing the fireplace—before I'd drifted off to dreamland.

And dream I had.

There's a slight strain in my pants that I try to will away. I'm still half-asleep, and all I really want to do is sit here and revel in the soft, early-morning atmosphere painted inside the walls of the flat.

Sherlock's breathing huffs steadily, giving away his sleeping state.

Sunlight peeks through the windows to tickle the yellow smiley face on the wall.

Shadows dance and fade as nighttime wanes, and the feeling of utter contentment fills me so completely that I choke up a bit.

I had never expected to feel this again.

After Afghanistan and before Sherlock, I had convinced myself that life from then on would be filled with empty days. Going through the motions, but not really  _being._ Again, after Sherlock was gone and I found myself alone, things had been in gray scale. I had once more convinced myself there would be no going back.

But I had been wrong, and suddenly my life had been bursting Technicolor again.

Slowly, the hues in the room change from the cool morning pastels to their glowing warmth of daytime. I have a shift to go to today, so it's really about time I get up. But Sherlock is still asleep and I really don't—

"I'm awake."

I jump slightly as Sherlock's sleep-roughened voice drops into the room. Watching as he unwraps his long arms from around his long legs, I say, "Did you sleep much?" There is a cold patch on my leg when he lifts his head.

"A bit."

I nod, not getting up just yet. My morning erection is gone; I don't need to worry about that, but I'm reluctant to let the quiet stillness that had settled around us to dissipate.

Sherlock gets up in a fluid motion and walks to where my laptop rests on the table. Sitting down and opening it, he stares at the screen for a minute. He hasn't turned it on yet.

My brow furrows as he looks up at me with, honestly, the most open and vulnerable expression I've ever seen on his face. He looks perplexed.

"Something wrong?"

He shakes his head.

I continue to watch him, worried, as he gets back up to settle in the chair across from me. He hadn't even checked for a case.

"It's…quiet," he says finally.

"What is?"

"Everything."

I study him, concern probably seeping off of me in waves. He's staring at a spot close to my left hand where it sits on the armrest. Apparently I wasn't the only one affected by the gentle morning, but that's not like Sherlock.

"I…it just…" He stops and rubs a hand through his hair. "There's nothing. Why is it so quiet?" His hand tugs in aggravation and his voice had risen in pitch on that question.

I quickly stand up and close the small step between the two chairs, leaning down and pulling his hand from its abuse on his hair. "Sherlock, hey, look at me. What's so quiet?"

He glances around the room quickly, tension radiating from him. "My head. The flat. The street. Everything. John!" His eyes snap up to mine. The panic I read there does nothing to calm my nerves. "What's wrong with me?"

Then it clicks.

"Nothing, Sherlock. Nothing. You're okay." I crouch down so that I'm looking up at him. His eyes are boring into mine as if I'm a lifeline and a selfish part of me savors that feeling. "It's peace. That's all you're feeling. Your mind is giving you a break."

"But that's never happened before," he says quietly, still fighting off panic.

I realize I'm holding his hand. More importantly, he's clinging to mine. With a gentle squeeze, I rest our twined hands on his knee. "But it's good, isn't it? Isn't it nice to have a rest?"

He's quiet for a very long moment as he stares at our fingers. "You…" He pauses and clears his throat. "Yes." It's a whisper, almost awed.

Sherlock Holmes in awe is one of the most beautiful things I have ever been graced to see.

I smile.

* * *

Sherlock is unusually quiet the rest of the day.

It had only taken a few more minutes before his mind had kicked back into motion, but he remained subdued. He refused the case Lestrade offered him around midmorning (the DI had texted me to see if something was wrong with the mad detective) and instead chose to remain on the sofa for the majority of the day. When I return from work, he is still in the same position as I'd left him.

It is just starting to get dark when he comes to me.

He hovers for a moment while I read an article about news in the Middle East.

"John?"  
"Hm?" I say, glancing up briefly.

He shifts from foot to foot in my peripheral vision. Recognizing his nervous (You say: Sherlock Holmes,  _nervous?_ I say: Yes, it does happen) movements, I settle my gaze on him this time. Sherlock can sometimes be a bit like a skittish animal.

He opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water for a moment before any sound comes out.

"I…" He starts again. "What…"

I narrow my eyes at him. He's avoiding eye contact and his hands are fluttering about him like two birds trying to escape a cage.

"I don't know what you are," he says quickly, eyes flickering to mine briefly.

My eyebrows lift of their own accord. "Human, I hope."

"Don't be simple, John!"

I shrug.

He rushes on. "Things keep happening. I don't even know what they are." He groans. "Sentiment! The one thing that slips my comprehension." He's pacing now, hands tugging at his hair in aggravation. "But, John, I don't understand what you are! You berate me for telling Lestrade about Donovan and Anderson shagging in the break room, and then laugh about it with me when we're on our way back to the flat. You complain about me making a rubbish bin of the flat, and then, in the next breath, ask if I have any laundry that needs to be done. You cook, you clean, and you make me take care of myself." He spins around and walks back in my direction, aggravation reaching its peak. "And then you bloody well get yourself half drowned in the middle of all this!"

 _And you kissed me,_ I think to myself.

"And _then,"_ he lets out a mirthless laugh, "and then this morning I wake up to find out I used you as a human pillow last night, and my  _mind is silent._ " The man spits it out as if it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. He stops pacing and stands in front of me. "I don't understand any of this!" he yells.

I remain quiet, waiting until he's dropped into his chair across from me to set aside the paper. "Sherlock, this, what you're describing, is friendship."  _No it isn't._

His head snaps up and his eyes bore into mine with an unnamable emotion. "Is it?" he asks, tone nearly mocking. "Because people seem to think it's a lot more than that."

"And since when do you listen to what people say?"  
He falls silent for a moment. "This isn't a conventionally 'friendly' relationship."

"We aren't conventional."

"Friends don't do each other's laundry."

I level my gaze with his. "All sorts of relationships build from friendship, Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson comes in with a basket of muffins before anything more can be said.

* * *

Some things are better left unsaid. Honestly, I can't bring myself to regret letting the "more than friends" hint drop. I know it wasn't ridiculously blunt, but I'm sure Sherlock, with his massive intellect, knew very well what I meant by it.

Further still, I think it intrigued him.

Things are fairly normal for the next few days. We get notified via government car kidnapping that Mycroft is officially in remission. Lestrade calls in with a few cases, and Sherlock selects a few from the blog. Mrs. Hudson hovers, Sherlock complains, and I work interference when it looks like the detective is about to start throwing things.

Molly blushes.

Angelo plays matchmaker.

Sebastian Wilkes gets arrested for embezzling (I'm slightly disappointed that Sherlock wasn't the one to take him down, but hey).

Sarah flirts.

Sherlock diagnoses Anderson with syphilis in front of half the Yard.

By the end of the week, I'm about to go mad from the normalcy.

_Nothing's happening._

This attitude that I've adopted bothers me, because life with Sherlock Holmes is anything  _but_ normal. The only constant thing about it is the relationship between the buggering detective and myself. And it's slowly driving me to insanity.

The realization of this had hit me hard in the face just as I was walking past Sherlock in the kitchen. He was going through an assortment of case files and paused for a brief moment to reach up and rub the back of his neck. It was an unnatural chink in his armor, revealing the stiffness that being human brings when you sit in one position far too long. It hit me that he was getting older, that I was getting older, we were still friends, and it  _wasn't enough._

The glass in my hand had shattered to the floor and it had taken me a moment to realize Sherlock had asked me if I was okay.

"Fine," I'd croaked before hurrying away, not bothering to clean up the glass shards.

If this kept up, very soon there would be no dishes left unharmed in the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter was okay. Very soon, the rating for this fic will be changing to M (and soon after that, to E), so here's your fair warning. :)
> 
> Comments appreciated. :) -C


	12. Smokers and Earthquakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A congratulations, carbon monoxide, and Mrs. Hudson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everybody for all your lovely comments. They make my day!
> 
> Okay, carry on my wayward sons. (Sorrynotsorry for that SPN reference.)

Living with Sherlock Holmes has its perks.

You have the British Government practically at your beck and call (no matter how much said Government may deny this at times). You have a sweet landlady that cooks occasionally and helps tidy the flat when you're busy chasing your flatmate around London. You get free food at a fabulous Italian restaurant. You get to go behind the caution tape at crime scenes. You get virtually unlimited access to the lab and morgue in Bart's.

Yes, living with Sherlock Holmes definitely has its perks.

But  _fuck,_ this is definitely not one of them.

"Sherlock," I voice warningly.

We're standing practically back-to-back, surrounded by three unsavory individuals with extremely big-ass guns. I have a sneaky suspicion that the Browning at the small of my back isn't going to help us much right now, but I don't trust Sherlock not to do something stupid, so I shoot him a warning look to go with the warning tone in my voice. He lightly rolls his eyes— _rolls his fucking eyeballs—_ and raises his arms in surrender. Probably more for my benefit than our captors'.

Honestly, I'm not sure how this turn of events happened. We'd been investigating a very routine missing persons case (Sherlock had complained about the dullness of it), when Sherlock had suddenly stopped in front of me, causing a small collision between us as I ran into his back. I couldn't really get irritated at him for his abrupt halt because the man  _did_  have a gun pointed at his chest at the time.

"Congratulations," Sherlock, back in the present, says with a smirk, "you got us."

"Yes, but fortunately," the apparent leader of the trio says with a wicked grin, "we don't need you two alive. Our boss would like to remain missing."

A cloth is shoved in front of my face before I can protest. Sherlock's cut off exclamation of my name is the last thing I hear before complete darkness sweeps me away.

* * *

I have a rather dull name. John. So many people have the name John. It's not a special name. It's not very memorable. I would have liked to have a better name if my mother had let me choose.

"John!"

There's an earthquake somewhere. Bit odd, that.

"John, wake up!"

The earthquake increases until my eyes blink open and I'm looking straight up at the ceiling of a car. I tilt my gaze, head still fuzzy from whatever we'd been drugged with.

"What is it?" I mumble, groaning and placing a hand against my head as I sit up.

We're in the back of a Land Rover, parked in a large garage as far as I can tell. Sherlock has already clambered up front and is messing with the doors frantically.

"They jammed the locks. I can't get the doors open," he says, moving to the passenger side.

I blink away some of the fog and look out the window. Multiple cars, all engines running, in an enclosed garage.

Shit.

My hand automatically reaches for my gun, but the bastards had taken it. Phones too, I realize. My pockets are empty.

"Sherlock…" I start, not really knowing how that sentence was supposed to end.

The detective is still moving about madly. "I'm going to get you out of this, John."

My heart clenches because I know he means it. If it were between my life and his, he'd choose me. He'd always choose me.

How could I have been so blind.

There's no way to tell how long we've been here. Precious minutes are ticking away as carbon monoxide slowly fills the inside of the garage, and something from my days at uni flickers through my mind.

Smokers are at higher risk of carbon monoxide poisoning.

My eyes latch onto Sherlock.

He's so vibrant, moving about the small confines of the vehicle in search of escape. So beautiful. So  _alive._ I don't want to watch the life drain from him this way.

The drug had made my limbs heavy, but I still join the search of a way to get out. Sherlock, too, looks as though his arms and legs are weaker than usual. He kicks at a window, but there's not enough force behind it.

"Together?" I ask.

He nods and we brace ourselves to kick against the windshield.

I count down and we slam our feet into the window. Nothing. We try again with the same results. Sherlock kicks it a few more times before sitting up.

With a frustrated cry, he slams his fist against the driver's side window with too much strength for his fragile bones. He lets out a pained sound and cradles the arm to his chest. Daft bugger probably broke his own wrist out of anger.

Sherlock's breathing is much more labored than I'd like it to be as I reach out and gently pull the injured arm towards me. I cradle it because reality has set in and this is precious. "Sherlock, it's okay."

His brow furrows briefly before smoothing again. He knows, too.

He moves to shift positions and clasps a hand against his head. "Dizzy." Some invisible thing snaps as he slumps into the seat, nearly boneless. Resigned.

I lightly rest a finger against his pulse point, noting the rapid beating that reflects my own.

He blinks up at me slowly before gripping my jacket above my shoulder. "John, I'm so sorry. So sorry."

Shaking my head, I lightly stroke the thin skin over the blue veins of his wrist. His hand is much larger than mine, and so very pale. He's paler right this moment than I've ever seen him.

I tug his legs until his feet rest against the floor before reclining the seat he's in. He deserves to be comfortable. I watch as he takes a breath, each one bringing him closer and closer to his last.

_Nonononono._

I hate this. Not because I'm probably about to die as well, but because I have to watch him die  _again._ This time, there is no faking. I can feel my mind start to thicken with heavier confusion, but I try to fight it as Sherlock stares up at me with his clear, clear eyes. I brush my fingers against a cheekbone, trying to ingrain it into my mind so hopefully I can recall it in whatever afterlife there is.

An unwanted chuckle slips out. What a stupid way to die. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sherlock's fingers tangle in the cuff of my jacket and hold.

I'm praying to a God I long ago stopped talking to when the garage door opens and blessed sunlight floods through.

* * *

The hospital makes us stay.

I'm not sure how long, because I'm honestly too worried about Sherlock to pay attention to trivial things such as time. He has the more severe case of poisoning between us.

I don't get to see him until much later, when he's hooked up to oxygen in a bed with a hospital gown that makes him look small, fragile, and childlike. The  _beepbeepbeep_ of his heart calms my nerves slightly.

_He's going to be okay._

It's what they've been telling me for the past several…hours? minutes? days? I hadn't believed a word, not even Mycroft's. Not until I could see him myself. And he is okay.

He looks at me as I enter the room. "Lestrade's timing is most advantageous."

I choke out a laugh that gets cut off by the tears of relief fighting to escape my eyes.

* * *

Mycroft sends a car to collect us.

The ride home is inexplicably tense. Neither one of us says one thing, but I can feel the agitation radiating from the lithe man beside me. His right hand is in a splint, the sling abandoned as soon as we left the hospital.

"You should keep the sling, Sherlock," I'd said.

His only response was to glare and toss the thing in a rubbish bin.

It makes me sad, being so emotionally distant after nearly  _dying_  with the berk sitting beside me.

He's sitting low, knees resting lightly against the seat in front of him. His injured arm is cradled against his chest, and he looks so very breakable that my throat aches. He's made of a deceptive form of glass—seemingly strong, and for the most part  _is_ , but one tap in the wrong place could make him shatter.

He seems off. His gaze is lackluster as he stares out the window when the car pulls to a stop in front of the flat. I thank the driver and climb out behind Sherlock, digging in my pocket for keys even as the front door sweeps open.

"Oh, boys." Mrs. Hudson's voice is unsteady as she pulls us both into a hug.

"We're fine, Mrs. Hudson," I reassure.

Sherlock remains silent, but returns our landlady's hug.

"Oh, Sherlock, your wrist," she mourns, lightly cupping the injured appendage in her delicate hands.

"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says flatly.

The sweet woman and I look at him for a moment, concerned. His tone… It just…it's not right.

She looks directly at me. "You take care of him, John." Her voice is vehement.

Of course I'll take care of him. Of course. How the hell could I not? I probably couldn't stop taking care of him if I tried.

Instead of saying all that, I simply nod.

She holds us for a few more moments before letting us go with two gentle kisses on each of our cheeks.

I'm tired. He's tired. The stars even seem tired as they wink weakly through the window. The toll from recent events suddenly weighs very heavily on my shoulders as we take the stairs slowly, Sherlock behind me. Once we reach the door to 221B, I can practically hear my bed calling my name. I swing the door open and step inside.

In a moment too fast for my exhausted mind to comprehend, Sherlock has me slammed against the door with his good arm, effectively shutting it with the use of my body weight.

"Sherl…?" I let the word die on my lips, looking up where his face is barely a breath away.

The expression there is so opposite from the passive one he's been wearing for the past hour, I nearly gasp.

His hand is gripping almost painfully into the lapel of my jacket. "You almost died," he hisses. "You almost died  _again."_ He shakes me roughly. " _You almost died right in front of me, you_ bastard _!"_ he whispers fiercely, spitting out the last word.

"You would have gone first, you daft wanker!" I grit out, because this is too much. Today has been too much. This past  _week_ has been too much. One too many times of almost losing him. "You and your fucking smoking habits! You were going to make me watch you die again!"

There's a moment. A silent one, both of us barely breathing. I can see in his eyes everything that's roiling deep in my stomach. Anger, frustration, despair, confusion, fear, pain.

And then, because I desperately need to, I kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angst again. xD
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated. :) -C


	13. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wide eyes and soft whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this is so late. I got home late last night and didn't have the energy to post. Hopefully this chapter makes up for the delay.
> 
> ALSO: Please notice the rating change.

Sherlock Holmes is a very noisy kisser.

Odd little breathy noises escape him. He's loud, even obscene as he responds and moves his mouth against mine. Tiny whimpers fill the air as his hand quickly releases my jacket and comes to cup the nape of my neck, tilting my head further back, while the splinted one rests against my waist.

Wanting, wanting,  _wanting,_ I slide my tongue against the seam of his lips, begging entrance.

The moment his mouth opens to me, I realize this is nothing like my dream.  _Nothing_.

Putting my hands on his hips, I tug firmly until they press against mine. I push my leg between both of his and he lets out a strangled noise that twists through my body until I'm already half hard.

"John," he chokes out. His hips are jerking in little aborted thrusts. "John,  _please_."

No more needs to be said.

I begin walking him backwards, guiding him blindly to the wall beside the doorway to his room and pressing him against it. His breath staggers and he throws his head back, exposing that— _oh god—_ gorgeous neck, and I brush my lips up to his ear before pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the perfect expanse of his throat. His hands flutter up my sides, fingers trembling and trying to find something to hold onto. I grab his good hand and push it against the wall beside his head, earning a grunt from the detective.

His movements are frantic.

"John." He heaves in a breath. "John, talk to me. I've never…" He drifts off as I press more tiny kisses below his ear. "I don't know what to do."

This pauses my actions. I had suspected as much, but now that I  _do_  know, I don't want to overwhelm him.

His jaw is uncharacteristically prickly when I touch it. "We won't do anything if it's too much, Sherlock. It's fine."

"No, don't stop." Slowly, I press a light kiss on his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt and he lets out a half-moan, half-whimper. " _God,_ John, don't stop."

I pull back and look into his eyes, pupils blown wide with arousal. His hair is scattered in a wild, curly mass and I haven't even touched it. Good god, the man's hair. "Bedroom?"

He nods and lets me lead him through the doorway until his legs hit the edge of the bed. He sits down heavily before slipping a long limb around my calf and pulling me forward. Sherlock suddenly looks very bashful. "This is new for me. I've never—"

"Sherlock, it's  _fine,_ " I interject, finally pulling my hand through that silky mess covering his head. "Tell me what you want to do."

He's still breathing heavily as he glances around the room. "I want…I need…" A swallow and a determined set to his jaw. "I want…you _,_ " he says, voice nearly a soft whisper as he pulls me into his lap and crushes our mouths together again.

This time, he shoves his tongue into my mouth. Inexperienced and desperate, but the best thing I've ever felt. It's hot, abandoned, and his tongue is warm and inquisitive, as it leaves no part of my mouth unexplored.

Beautiful.

My fingers seek out his shirt buttons quickly, making quick work of the first two before straying, as Sherlock's own hand moves to my hip. His grip is fierce and will probably leave bruises and I think to myself:  _John Hamish Watson, you are about to have sex with Sherlock Holmes._

The thought makes me simultaneously giddy and half scared out of my mind.

The rest of the buttons are undone quickly, and I shove the luxurious cloth off pale, pale shoulders and then there's  _so much skin_  that I almost don't know what to do with it.

"John, why do you always wear so many damn layers?" I shift my attention from Sherlock's bare chest to where his fingers are fighting to gain purchase on the hem of my jumper. "This is ridiculous!"

I bat his hand away and yank the offending garment over my head. "Do  _not_ hurt your wrist again, Sherlock."

The detective suddenly goes very still.

I pause in the process of unbuttoning my shirt. "What's wrong?"

His eyes are massive. "You just…it just…" He clears his throat. "I haven't heard that tone of voice since Baskerville."

Oh. Soldier voice.

"Sorry," I mumble, looking back down to where my fingers are working on the last button.

"I wasn't complaining."

Oh.

_Oh._

This time, it's myself that crushes our mouths together. I can feel this entire thing growing more out of control than it should be. We need to slow down, I know. I need to make sure Sherlock is okay and that we don't overwhelm him with what we're about to do. But this entire thing was born out of fear of losing the man beneath me and I  _can't seem to stop._

Sherlock pulls off my shirt with his good hand, grunting in frustration when the cuffs catch against my wrists.

" _Really,_ John, it shouldn't be this difficult to get somebody undres—" His voice chokes off on a startled gasp as I palm him through his trousers.

"Stop talking," I grit out, reaching for the fastenings to get him one garment closer to being naked.

"John, I am quite capable of unbuttoning my own trousers," he forces out, panting and barely writhing as my knuckles brush a severely low patch of skin on his stomach.

This time, I grip him firmly through the fabric and he just manages to hold back a cry. "Sherlock."

His eyes meet mine, wide and innocent, and something finally strikes me in my sternum.

Cold, heavy reality slams into me with the realization of all I'm taking from the trembling man beneath me. And he  _is_ trembling. He's shaking and shuddering and breathing in gulping breaths and I worry that I've already pushed too far, too quickly. He's new to this. No matter what he says, this has to be a little terrifying. His mind is probably overloading with new data. Crippling fear washes over me as I start to think I've fucked this up before it even had a chance to begin.

And maybe this isn't the time or place for grand revelations, but I realize that every day pushes Sherlock closer and closer to the time that he really  _won't_  return, he really  _will_ take his last breath and leave me alone in a small flat on Baker Street.

And I can't take it. I can't handle these thoughts; so instead, I gently calm his frantic movements before lowering the taller man against the sheets. His breathing steadies out as I continue to alleviate him of his shoes and socks, then slip his trousers off, my touch whispering against his smooth skin.

"John," he breathes, and I know that  _this_ is right. Slow, sweet, unhurried.  _This_ is what Sherlock needs.

I hate myself for not realizing it from the beginning.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," I murmur, because it's my turn to apologize. "I am so sorry." Sorry for everything.  _Everything._ I know he understands what I'm saying.

Standing, I pull off my own clothes, aware of Sherlock's heavy gaze on me as I strip until only pants remain. Then, slowly, I kneel down, doing my best to ignore Sherlock's quick inhalation at my new position.

"Lean back so I can get your trousers off, Sherlock," I say quietly, meeting his wide-eyed gaze.

He does it, resting back on his elbows and lifting his hips so I can slide the expensive fabric off those long, long legs. I wrap my hand around a calf and press a small kiss to his knee.

"John." He whispers it so silently it's a miracle I even heard. His large palm is resting against his forehead, covering one eye, and the other is closed.

"Okay?" I ask.

He nods, face still turned to the ceiling. "Yes."

This time, I brush one hand up the outside of his thigh, the purpose not to arouse but to let him know what I'm doing before I slip my fingers into the edge of his pants. He lifts his hips automatically, and I gently pull the fabric away, taking a moment to look at him before standing and slipping off my own.

I look down at him, stretched out and naked, and can't get over how very fragile he looks. The splint on his slender wrist only furthers that belief.

And beautiful. The man is achingly beautiful.

With a deep inhale, I crawl up the bed until I can look down into his face. His hair is wild in a dark halo against the duvet, cheeks flushed through the porcelain of his skin, pupils wide and wanting as he opens his eyes.

His good hand comes up and rests against the slight softness of my stomach a brief moment before both arms wrap around my shoulders and pull down until my face is buried in the crook of his neck. He breathes softly against my skin, whispering barely-spoken words that sound like French.

I feel him move beneath me, pulling us further up the bed, and then his legs are bent and open, making room for my hips, and we are finally pressed together. I gasp into his neck and he lets out a cry into the air as he throws his head back into the pillow.

Languages meld together as words fall endlessly from his lips in quiet tones. French, Italian, and perhaps German, all the while my name— _JohnJohnJohn—_ interposed between.

It's beautiful— _stunning—_ and my hips involuntarily thrust forward the slightest amount, craving friction, craving  _him_.

"John!" he cries, shocked. "I don't know how long…"

I do it again, slow and gentle, and now Sherlock is writhing beneath me, tossing his head to the side and exposing his long neck. My lips latch onto a wayward freckle and suck, perhaps marking him.

I have a rhythm now and Sherlock's hips are bucking up from below mine to meet in a wonderfully overwhelming brush of skin against skin. I wet my palm and reach down to grasp him, but his hips snap back and away.

"Don't touch me," he gasps. "This is—oh  _god—_ enough _,"_ He throws his head back. "Trust me,  _this is enough!"_

So I thrust again and he slides a shaky hand behind my neck to draw our mouths together. His kisses are even more uncoordinated now, and it's really just a tangle of lips and tongue, but it's perfect. A few more thrusts and then he's coming, a drawn-out wail emitting from his throat as he breaks the kiss. Seeing him,  _feeling_ his warmth, is enough to send me catapulting over the edge in unexpectedly quick release.

I hold myself up on shaky arms, both of us panting and breathing in the same air as we try to recover. I hadn't climaxed like that in ages, more from my partner's release than from my own, and it is  _glorious_.

Sherlock's brow is painted with a light sheen of sweat and he shoves his mop of hair away from his forehead as his breathing begins to even out again. "Bloody hell," he mutters, staring at the ceiling.

A startled laugh bursts out of me in a huff of air and he smiles as his eyes fall shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's that! This fic is now rated M!
> 
> PLEASE comment and let me know your thoughts on this chapter. -C


	14. Razor Blades and What-Are-We-Doings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snog, shower, and shave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOSH. Guys, I am SO SORRY this is so horribly late! I had some major writer's block and just couldn't get past it, plus a lot of Senior stuff I've had to deal with this past week. Ultimately, I have no excuse, however, for it being two weeks since my last post. Fortunately, this chapter ended up being a bit longer, so I hope that helps make amends. :)
> 
> ALSO: I'm not sure how long this fic is going to be. I have the next chapter or two planned out, but after that I have no ideas. SO. If anybody has ideas for prompts on how to keep this going, BY ALL MEANS please throw them my way! I can't guarantee I'll use them, but I'll most definitely look at them and take them into consideration, as well as give you credit for the idea (of course!).
> 
> Okay, I've gone on enough now.

There are good and bad ways of waking up in the morning.

There are mornings where your alarm clock goes off hours too early for you to be ready after you just spent the entire night chasing bad guys around the streets of London with a madman.

There are mornings when a certain DI barges into your flat telling you that your flatmate has, once again, gotten himself into a shit-load of trouble.

There are mornings that begin in the middle of the night after a horrifying nightmare of that same flatmate falling onto the concrete and shattering into thousands of tiny, bloody pieces.

And then there is that new type of morning that starts slowly, warmth enveloping you when you open your eyes to see that face you adore to the tips of your toes.

It's extremely early and the sun isn't even up yet. I've only been asleep for a couple of hours, but waking up to the sight of Sherlock curled on his side, face slack with sleep, makes the lack of rest worth it. Those bow lips are plump and pouty, pale skin nearly translucent in the delicate light making its way from the fading moon. The fingers of one hand are barely brushing my side, just his fingertips pressing against my skin, and that's all the contact we have. It seems like Sherlock. Not one to cuddle, but in need of maintaining contact. It's rather lovely.

Being the one lying here, getting the privilege of actually watching Sherlock Holmes at his most vulnerable state, is overwhelming. It starts in the pit of my stomach and grows until my entire body is infused with warmth.

Reaching out a fingertip, I brush a loose curl from his smooth forehead. His nose scrunches up momentarily at the contact and he shifts his feet so that one is pressed against the bottoms of mine. I smile.

It's wonderful, this lazy, unpressured moment, but I feel sticky and I'm sure Sherlock would as well if he was awake. Leaning forward and cupping the back of his brilliant head, I press my lips to his forehead. He inhales deeply, releasing a breath that skitters against my collarbone.

"John."

"Let's get cleaned up, shall we?" I whisper, rubbing a thumb over one sharp cheekbone.

"I just woke up," he complains, eyes still screwed shut as he rolls onto his back.

I poke a finger into his side and he flinches. "Come on. Nice warm shower. Yes?"

"Fine." He starts rolling, ending up on top of me before I can get out of the way.

Chuckling, I push him off before climbing from the bed. He blinks his eyes open, wide and sleepy as he follows me.

I've got the water going by the time he shuffles in, hugging himself.

"Cold?"  
He nods.

Old pipes rattle and squeal as hot water fills them while I help him out of his splint.

I hold out a hand for Sherlock before stepping into the warm shower, pulling him in behind me. I position him so he's getting the majority of the heat, never letting go of his hand. After a few moments, I reach for his shampoo.

"Lean down," I murmur.

He does, and I begin massaging the shampoo into his riotous curls, careful not to let any get into his eyes. Those pale irises are hidden by his eyelids as he lets them fall shut, and he tentatively brings his hands up to grip my biceps.

I rinse his hair, but before I can move on to cleaning that gorgeous skin, he leans his head forward and buries his face in the crook of my neck. I feel shy lips press tiny kisses to the skin there, and the blinding innocence of this man cripples me. Wrapping my arms firmly around his waist, I simply hold him as he trails sweet, sleepy kisses across my shoulder.

It has the potential to be more than just this, but there's no need and it doesn't go any farther than gentle kisses as we take turns soaping each other's skin.

After we're rinsed and I've shut the water off, I wrap a sleepy and shivering Sherlock in a towel and lead him back to his room.

We fall asleep again, this time our legs entangled and my arms wrapped around the lithe man to keep him warm.

* * *

"I need to shave."

I force my eyes open, blinking to see Sherlock sitting up in the bed beside me. He looks as though he's been awake awhile, propped against the headboard and staring at the opposite wall. Afternoon sunlight is bathing the room in warm tones, making his skin glow with orange light.

"Go shave, then," I mumble, barely awake.

He holds up his once-again splinted arm. "I may be intellectually superior to most—if not all—of society, but I am yet to be ambidextrous."

I sigh, realizing our lie-in has probably been thwarted by the pale scarecrow beside me. "Right now?"

He looks down, our eyes meeting for the first time since our shower, and I can see the stubble beginning to peek through his skin.

"I didn't even know you could grow facial hair."

He rolls his eyes and crawls out of bed, starkers and flaunting it.

"At least put on some bloody pants," I grumble, falling out of the other side of the bed. Belatedly, I realize I'm in Sherlock's room, so I stumble my way to the stairs and up to my own room, where I throw on a fresh pair of pants and a pair of pyjama bottoms.

By the time I've made it to the bathroom, Sherlock has done what I've asked and is wearing a loose pair of pyjama pants, slung so low on his hips that a slight V is visible. Where the man's muscle comes from, I've no clue.

"Do you mind?" I ask, gesturing to the toilet.

He leaves and I relieve myself before letting him back in. Silently, he moves about, collecting his straight razor, cream, brush, and a flannel, which he soaks with hot water and squeezes out before wrapping it against his face.

I stand for a moment, a disposable razor man myself, going over all the steps to this process. I've had to do this before, shave another man's face, in the army, and I worked in a small barber's shop as a teenager, so I know what I'm doing. Sherlock probably deduced all that before selecting me for the task.

Still holding the warm towel to his face with his injured hand, Sherlock crouches and opens the cupboard below the sink and retrieves a mug, handing it to me. I fill it with hot water and place the brush in it to soak.

"Hold on, isn't that my—"

"It's a perfectly proportioned mug for what I require of it, John."

I shake my head slightly and walk out of the room. "I'm going to make some tea. Be back shortly."

He follows me, holding that towel to his face and looking absolutely ridiculous in an endearing, boyish way. He sits at the table and watches me move about the kitchen. The man's skin is probably well enough prepared to go under the blade, no matter how gruesome that sounds, but he doesn't say anything. I don't make him a cup, and only take two sips of mine before setting it back on the counter.

"Alright, lets get this over with."

I trail behind him this time, watching as he unwraps his face like an Egyptian mummy.

Back in the loo, I study the room we have to work with. The toilet lid was destroyed in one of Sherlock's less…successful experiments, so that's out as a location for him to perch. The sink is low and has a small counter, so I gesture towards it. The angle's a bit awkward, but I think we'll survive.

"I guess you'd better hop up there, then."

He does, but it's not so much a hop-up as it is a sit-down.

I get the brush and cream ready, tapping the brush lightly on the edge of my (notice:  _my_ ) mug before I swirl it onto Sherlock's face. Setting that down, I pick up the blade and step closer.

Sherlock's legs part to allow me to move between them so I can reach his face better, and I immediately realize that this entire situation is going to get really hot, really quickly if I'm not careful. The last thing we need is for me to get all hot and bothered while holding a blade to my flatmate[insert term "lover" here?]'s throat.

His hands are braced on the edge of the counter, and he's leaning forward slightly, head tilted. It hits me how much trust he's putting in my hands. Literally. This is an extremely vulnerable position for him to be in, and if Sherlock is careful about one thing, it's vulnerability.

Pulling his skin taut with my right hand, I begin the tedious task of removing facial hair with a blade.

It's incredibly intimate, which in turn, quickly becomes erotic. Sherlock tilts his head each direction without instruction from me, and about halfway through the second half of his face, his eyes fall shut. Creating a smooth expanse of skin below those sharp cheekbones is gorgeous in and of itself, but when I lean closer to do the space between his nose and mouth, he draws his full upper lip between his teeth and I falter before touching the sharp metal to his delicate skin. I quickly finish that and his chin, leaving only the vulnerable throat to go. Gently, I tilt his head up with a finger below his chin before carefully, slowly, make my way across the alabaster skin. The final swipe reveals the mark I'd given him the night before.

"Sherlock," I whisper, my breath skittering across his damp flesh.

His entire upper body immediately flushes as goose bumps form.

My eyes drift down, and— _oh dear god—_ he's getting hard.

The man has been remarkably stoic this morning, my tired mind just now deciding to remind me of that fact. Not at all the way he was during our clandestine shower.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" It's low, almost guttural. His eyes are still shut.

"What we did last night… That was okay, wasn't it?"

Now he looks at me, those eyes— _god,_ those eyes—piercing me with curious precision. "Why wouldn't it be?"

I wave a hand at him in the air between us. "You've just been very passive this morning, is all."

His eyes narrow slightly. "Unlike your past lovers, I'm afraid I do not possess the knowledge of how one is to act the 'morning after.'" The air quotes are heavily implied.

I look at him a moment, then, instead of responding, I reach behind him and wet the same flannel he used before with cool water before patting his face with it. Aftershave is next, and the man smells  _heavenly,_ no matter how female that makes me sound. The silk of his skin glides under the roughness of my palms as I unnecessarily skim my hands over his shoulders.

I'm closer now, pressed firmly between the other man's thighs, and I can feel his breath dancing across my own skin. A hand comes to rest on the side of my neck.

_John, everything's fine._

I nod, understanding what he cannot say as I bump our noses together and he leans forward. My hands come to a rest on his thighs, moving upward against the fabric until my fingers barely brush the most intimate part of the man. Sherlock gasps my name and wraps his legs around my waist in one quick movement. His arms are next, tugging me impossibly closer and clinging to my shoulders as his face nudges into my neck.

"You do know I can't carry you, right?" I whisper, his soft hair tickling my upper lip.

"We'll make do," he pants, moving his hands all along my upper chest now, cataloging and categorizing despite the splint, pausing only slightly when his thumb brushes my scar. His eyes lift back up. They would be sad if he decided to show the emotions behind that flushed face. "Is it not good of me to be grateful for the bullet that did this?" he murmurs.

The atmosphere changes. The intensity that had been building evaporates, leaving a soft and unhurried longing curling around us.

It aches. I want to crawl right into that fragile ribcage beneath my hands and never leave. I've never had an addictive personality, but I will never stop craving Sherlock: his brain, his body, his bloody abrasive self.

"Oh god,  _Sherlock,"_ I choke out, pulling his face to mine so I can kiss him, breathe him in, absorb as much of him as I possibly can. I don't know how long I have with him, or how long he'll be able to put up with the monotony that I am, but I'll be damned if I don't make the most of it now.

His hand clenches down on my shoulder as our lips crash together, thumb digging almost painfully into the scar there. I'm beyond caring as I bring an unsteady hand to cup his smooth jaw.

My lips tug at his bottom one and his mouth opens, a hot tongue tentatively brushing against my own mouth. He whimpers and moves closer on the counter, long legs still firmly linked behind my back, but amidst the wiggling he had scooted to the edge of the sink bowl itself, and, with one misplaced move, he falls into it.

His eyes are so comically large when he looks up at me, shocked, that I let out a roar of laughter Mrs. Hudson could probably hear.

"Not funny," he glowers. "Help me up."

With arms weak from amusement, I slide them around his waist and drag his arse out of the sink, still chuckling as I bury my face in the crook of his neck.

Firm hands grip the sides of my face and pull me back so that insistent lips can latch onto mine. I know Sherlock is trying to distract from his rather ungraceful moment, but no complaint comes from me as he determinedly forces my mouth open with his tongue.

Within a few short moments of rather intense snogging, I'm more than ready to make this encounter horizontal.

But Sherlock pulls away.

"John." I try to shut him up, but he just turns his head. "John, what are we doing?"

_Shooting our friendship to hell._

Instead of that, I choose to say the line that could have come straight out of some corny romantic comedy: "What we always do. Risking everything."

Sherlock's nose scrunches. "That was hideous."

I grin brokenly. "I know." I'm slightly distracted by the little wrinkles between his brows. "You're adorable."

He glares. "I am not  _adorable."_

"Yes you are."

"'Adorable' is for children, John. I am  _not_ a child."

My grin widens. "Are you sure?"

He rolls his eyes. "If that is the case, then you have some very disturbing kinks that we need to discuss."

Chuckling lightly, I look up and meet his gaze. His eyes are barely crinkling around the edges with amusement. "Wanker," I say fondly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did all my research about shaving with a straight razor online since I am, in fact, a girl and don't know anybody that uses one. So once again, any errors in that department are the internet's fault.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments appreciated. :) -C
> 
> P.S. Did anybody see that live chat thing that Benedict did? That man, I swear.


	15. Screaming Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tattered mind needs rest too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, since last week's update was so late, I decided to upload this early. PLEASE if any of you guys have ideas for how I should continue this, DON'T BE AFRAID TO LET ME KNOW. I desperately need ideas.
> 
> Thank you all for your sweet reviews! They make me so happy. xoxo
> 
> This fic is now rated E, so.
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of drug use, explicit sexual content.

We never continued our little snogging session.

Lestrade had shown up (we had fortunately been mostly dressed already) to let us know they had suspects in our attempted murder that they were holding in custody. He needed us to identify them.

Sherlock's face was tight and pinched as we walked into the dark space opposite the interrogation room. He had refused to wear the splint any longer, and looked slightly pained. He was silent as we waited for them to bring in the men, and when they did, the detective glanced at me before telling Lestrade "Yes" and then whirling out of the room.

I had nodded my agreement, followed him into a cab, then to Baker Street where he paced restlessly across the creaking floorboards continuously for nearly an hour before throwing his coat back on.

"I need to go."

I had no time to ask him what was wrong.

That had been seven hours ago.

After three had gone by, I'd texted him and received a simple  _I'm fine_ in reply. While I understood that this had been upsetting (it's hard to look into the faces of the men who tried to kill you and your closest friend), I was a bit surprised by how hard Sherlock was taking it. I hadn't seen him act this way since Irene Adler, and even still, that had been after he thought she was  _actually dead_. We had both survived this one.

…Did Sherlock…?

Anyway, I'm twitching about nervously when I hear the front door open and shut, footsteps climbing the stairs, our door open, his feet on the landing. He steps through the doorway to the sitting room and again I'm reminded of the Adler case as he looks at me, seemingly cold and detached.

_Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time._

I try not to look overly relieved, though the fear that had been about to choke me, the worry that he had relapsed, had me so tense that just the sight of that stupid coat was enough to make me want to bury my face in it. I had been within minutes of calling Mycroft.

"Alright?" I ask from my armchair, forcing myself to sit still.

He says nothing as he hangs up his coat and scarf. He retreats to his bedroom and I'm worried that I've seen the last of him for the night, but within a few moments he returns, wearing his night clothes and dressing gown.

He stands in the middle of the room, looking lost and impossibly young. He just stands. And looks. Scans the room.

So, yes, there are good ways and bad ways of waking up in the morning, results of which show throughout the day. Rolling out on the wrong side of the bed, out of tea, broken down car, lost house key.

But when living with Sherlock Holmes, there are good and  _bad_ days, in a completely different spectrum from how people normally view and come about them.

His mind is his tool, the one thing he relies upon. He considers himself superior, which he is in most ways, intellectually. It runs faster than I can comprehend, notices things that most people wouldn't even begin to take note of. He  _observes,_ he  _thinks,_ he runs off to his sodding Mind Palace. And most days, it's good. Usually he's fine, he can function, he acts as normal as can be expected of him.

But the bad days? Those are the most difficult times to watch him. His mind devours him, tortures him, flings him around in a tornado of thought and mercilessly drops him onto a bed of spikes. There isn't much to do about it, hardly any way to relieve it. Usually, he either lies on the sofa curled up, or locks himself in his room. Sometimes, if I'm sitting on the sofa myself, he'll curl up beside me with his head against my thigh. That doesn't happen often, but it seems to placate him in a way that nothing else does. It's flattering, in a horrible, I'm-quite-flattered-but-it's-not-worth-seeing-you- like-this kind of manner.

This is one of those shadowed evenings.

It's not crippling this time, as he's obviously been functioning quite well up to this point. He's able to move about, able to think. It's not his worse, but it is certainly not his best.

"Sherlock," I say quietly, to ground him. Bring him back to a small flat on Baker Street in London, with a flatmate (partner, companion, friend, best friend, lover[?]), body parts in the fridge, and a skull on the mantle.

He turns to me, finally. He looks agitated and restless in a way that could lead to a much worse night than it is right now.

So, I hold out a hand, and it takes him approximately two-and-a-half seconds before he steps forward and takes it, and I'm suddenly in possession of a lapful of consulting detective, face buried into the space between my shoulder and neck. He has our joined hands held between us, the fingers of his free one clutched into the sleeve of my jumper.

He starts whispering in the quiet room. He's apologizing, murmuring "I'm sorry" into my skin over and over again.

"It's okay, everything's fine." I place a hand over his shoulder, try to push him back, but he won't move. "Sherlock, we're fine."

"It was the pink nail varnish, the sodding pink nail varnish. How could I have missed it, how? It was right there,  _right there."_ All his words are muttered frantically, increasingly agitated and worrying.

I have no idea what he's on about, but he's spiraling downward quickly. "Sherlock, look at me. Look." I finally manage to push him back enough to look into his face. His eyes are wide, almost feral. "I don't know where you were today, I don't know what you did or what you thought about, but you have to stop this. Just stop this." The last sentence is harshly whispered, words I've said before to a Sherlock I thought was dead.

He blinks and the feral look is gone. Dropping my hand, he climbs out of my lap and retreats to his room with a silent  _click_ of the door.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair.

* * *

I'm rather astonished when he comes to me that night.

He doesn't make a sound as he climbs the stairs, just a silhouette in the doorway as he steps in. I haven't slept at all, and it's nearing on midnight. I can see the shadow of a cheekbone as the moonlight drifting in reflects off pale skin.

My tossing and turning has moved me to the far side of the bed, so he climbs on his hands and knees across it until he's hovering above me. His lips are soft but cold when they meet mine, and a touch to his hand reveals that they aren't the only part of his body that's cold. He's freezing.

With a hand in his hair, I ease him down on top of me, trying to share my body heat.

The kiss is slow and he lets me guide it, his body relaxing as he permits me to roll us over until I'm covering him. I pull away for a brief moment to tug the blankets just over his feet, trying to ignore the plaintive sound that slips out of his throat as I do so. Neither of us says a word as he slides cold hands under my shirt and onto my sides. I hiss in air at the contrast of skin temperatures, but don't stop him, instead bringing our mouths back together.

He still makes noises when he kisses, even if it's slow. I can hear and feel the soft snuffs of his breath as his hand tries to tangle into my short hair. His hand is so large it nearly cups the entire occipital and parietal parts of my skull, and even though it should be  _me_  offering comfort to  _him_ , it makes me feel cared for by this nutter in a rush of emotion that has me accidentally nipping at his lips.

He nearly whimpers.

"John," he says desperately, throwing his head back and exposing his throat. When I see his face, I nearly choke out a sound myself. His eyes are wide and shot full of desperate need, want, hope,  _fear_ ; the distressed crease between his brows is shattering.

I cradle his head and brush my fingers over his face. "Do you trust me?"

He nods, hips beginning to shudder lightly up into mine. "Always."

I kiss his clavicle through his t-shirt. Memories from the morning he woke up after sleeping against me by the fire are running through my mind. I made his brain slow once, and I hope to God I can again.

Sliding lower in the bed, I grip the band of his pyjama bottoms, glancing up briefly to make sure this is okay. He's staring back at me this time, eyes wide and seeking in the dark.

Young, so young.

I clasp his hand with my own and tug off the bottoms with the other. He lifts his hips and helps with his free hand. His pants beneath are slightly tented, but I don't focus on that, instead moving back up and pressing my cheek against his, lips by his ear. Slipping my fingers beneath the hem of his shirt, I ask, "Are you going to be cold if I take this off?"

He shakes his head against mine, so I do.

And I'm reaching into the bedside table, and he's trembling. Quivering fingers tug at my own tee and once I've retrieved the item from the drawer, I let him pull it over my head. He keeps it clutched in his hand for a moment before letting it drop onto the bed beside us.

There are concerns, I know, from his years of using. But I was also the doctor to insist that tests be done to prove that he was clean after someone made some nasty accusations. As for myself, I've been checked recently, so I'm not worried.

And I want to  _feel him_ with nothing between.

He shivers as my fingers slip down to the band of his pants, and I bring our mouths together in a hopefully calming kiss. We're pressed together, his naked arousal to my clothed one, and his trembling is worse.

"Is this okay?" I ask, pressing my lips to a cheekbone and shifting over so I'm beside him instead of above.

"Yes, John,"he utters quietly, neck arching and breath catching as my fingers lightly dance down the expanse of his chest.

I give his cock a few strokes and he bites back a cry. Leaving the most blatant part of him, I reach behind and run my fingers lightly  _just there._ His hips buck up slightly.

 _"Oh,"_ he sighs as if he just discovered something, eyes drifting shut.

I pull that hand away, shucking my pants. The lube is cool on my fingers as I prepare them, careful and generous. I'm not going to hurt Sherlock.

Moving so I'm straddling his hips again, I urge his legs up and over my shoulders, leaving him open. He covers his face the same way he did last night, forearm over one eye, and his mouth falls slack as I ease just the tip of my index finger in. And then it stops.

"You have to relax," I sooth, rubbing my other hand against the outside of his thigh briefly. "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly."

He nods slightly, sucking in a deep gulp of air and then letting it out between parted lips. I tell him to do it again, and then once more, and on the third time my finger presses farther until it's all the way in.

"John!" he yelps, hips jerking against the intrusion.

I freeze and start to pull out. "It's okay, we don't have to do this, Sherlock."

"No!" He reaches down and grips my retreating wrist. "I'm fine. It just…it startled me."

I press a kiss to the side of his knee. "Okay."

He releases my hand and I continue, listening carefully to his little huffs of air to make sure he's truly okay.

I move carefully and gently until he has completely adjusted to the single digit before beginning to add a second. This time, he lets out a little muffled noise as I press in, but his hips move towards it instead of shying away. I scissor them slightly and his entire body shudders, a soft gasp escaping from the detective's usually slicing mouth. It's the first noise he's truly let out, all others cut off. When he reaches a fist towards his mouth, I stop him.

"No. I want to hear you." My hand has paused. "Please."

He watches me a moment before nodding and letting his hand fall away.

I smile gently, then, hooking a finger, I search for—

" _John!"_ he all but screams, arching off the bed and letting out an assortment of noises. "Ohgodohgodohgod."

During his movement, my arousal had become almost painful. I press the tip of a third finger in, and it goes in much easier than the other two had. He's a leaking, trembling, nearly sobbing mess by now and I don't know whether to be proud or alarmed.

"John, please.  _Oh god,_ I'm ready!" he cries, voice broken and pleading as he moves down against my hand.

I move his legs from my shoulders and he hooks his ankles together behind my back as I reapply another generous amount of lube to my hand. It's a relief when I finally touch myself, letting a little of the pressure that had become nearly unbearable ebb away, but it's quickly not enough. I line myself up before grabbing Sherlock's trembling wrist.

"Sherlock, look at me," I say firmly. His eyes are open and pure and heartbreakingly honest. I gentle my voice. "This is different than a few fingers. It's going to be tight and a bit uncomfortable. If anything hurts,  _anything,_ you let me know right away, got it? I don't want to hurt you."

With a jerky nod, he holds his arms up and I let myself be pulled closer by the lanky man beneath me. His bones are small and fragile beneath my touch as I place a hand against his hip. And then…

And then I gently push in, just a little, just enough for Sherlock to choke out a near-sob and move back.

"I-I'm sorry," he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut.

I brush my clean hand through his curls. "It's okay. I'll go slower."

I try again with the same result.

"It's so much," he's whispering. Our chests are pressed together and I have both hands on his face, stroking the dark skin beneath his eyes. "Everything is just," he waves an arm helplessly, " _so much."_

I'm getting the feeling that it's not just the physicality of it, it's the emotion and  _letting go,_ that he's struggling with, so I nod and brush my lips against his chin, nose, eyes, neck, collarbone, sternum. It distracts him enough to push in a little further, just to the point where I can angle differently and hit his prostate…

He cries out and his heels dig painfully into my back. His hips jerk up enough to push me farther in and then he's begging for  _More, John, please!_

As for myself, I'm afraid my nerve endings are about to combust. The feeling of being inside him with  _nothing in between_ is incredible. He's tight,  _unbelievably tight,_ and I pause for a moment before easing in further, letting him adjust as I go. My arms are braced on either side of him, giving him enough space to lean up and press our mouths together. It's brief, completely uncoordinated, and honestly one of the best kisses of my entire existence, because  _I'm in Sherlock,_ and we're not just two people anymore. This isn't just a story about two flatmates that solve crimes together. It's so incredibly much more.

Sherlock drops back onto the bed, breathing erratically, clutching blindly at the sheets until he finds my arm and wraps one hand around my wrist.

I hit his prostate again and the reaction is overwhelming. His entire upper body lurches off of the bed and he grabs me, wrapping his arms around my ribcage and keeping us both vertical, forcing my knees further into the mattress.

"Sherlock, Sherlock hold on," I choke out, nearly overcome from the new angle.

He whimpers and presses his face into my hair.

Gripping his arse to keep him steady, I quickly pull my legs from under him and stretch them out so we don't fall over before tugging him further up and deepening our connection.

He groans. "John, John.  _Oh…_ "

"You're going to have to do this," I whisper harshly, throat constricted with arousal.

Hands pressing into his hipbones, I urge him into a steady rhythm of him lifting off and then back onto me. A nearly ceaseless low sound is vibrating out of Sherlock as he moves. I start moving with him, moving up to his down, and he cries out my name so desperately that it sends me hurtling to a point I had no idea I was so close to reaching.

I slam my lips against his and push him back to the bed as I come, releasing into him, and my mouth muffles Sherlock's scream as he comes too, hard and messy between us. My knees are bent, straddling his hips again and I hold him as his body shudders and comes down from its high. He comes so hard that he lets out several more little cries and a few whimpers before its done and he rests there, exhausted and boneless.

I kiss Sherlock softly for a long, silent moment before he pulls away.

He buries his face in my shoulder, pressing so firmly I am sure he'll crack his nose, and for the shortest of moments I believe he is fighting back tears.

"Sherlock?"

"It stopped again. Oh, god. John, you stopped it again." He lets out a breath on a dry sob and cradles my head in his arms as he wraps them around me.

I hold him as his ribcage shudders and shivers wrack his body, soothing him with fingertips against silken skin until he drifts off into a merciful sleep.

* * *

I open my eyes to be faced with the plain white expanse of the bed beside me. There's a blanket and sheets and the escaping duvet, but no curly-haired detective. The glaring numbers on the clock beside my head tell me it's barely three in the morning as I push back the thin sheet covering my legs and pull on my pyjama bottoms before shuffling out of my room and down the stairs.

The sitting room is bathed in silvery moonlight. It streaks across the floor and bounces off the shinier bits of furniture. There, sitting in my chair, rests Sherlock. He's the palest thing in the room, bare chest washed out by the bright light illuminating his skin. The way he's sitting is abnormal for the man. Normally, he'd have his fingers steepled lightly below his chin, leaning forwards slightly, spine completely straight.

Tonight, however, Sherlock Holmes is hunched over. His head hangs low, elbows braced against his pyjama-clad knees. He's found Mrs. Hudson's hidden cigarette stash. I can smell it in the air. The glowing end of the cigarette is dimming as it rests loosely in his graceful fingers.

I wonder briefly if he's fallen asleep like this, but his eyes are open, staring at the floor between his feet. And then he speaks.

"John." His voice is deep, quiet. Broken.

Slowly, I make my way further into the room. I notice the pack of cigarettes lying at his feet, contents spilled out as if it had been brutally torn apart by a desperate creature. My gaze slides back to Sherlock and I know this to be true.

"Sherlock," I whisper, unsure as to what needs doing.

Closer now, I can see the slight tremor in the detective's fingers.

"It won't stop."

I don't ask, and he doesn't tell. He doesn't have to.

His mind, constantly pulling apart the fabrics of life itself until it drives its owner over the edge. Addictions, crimes; they are temporary relief at best.

I move to the edge of the chair, one leg kneeling in the gap between Sherlock's back and the Union Jack pillow, while the other is still braced on the floor. Slipping my hand gently to his fingers, I take the cigarette and drop it in an empty mug nearby before returning my hand and curling my fingers into the gaps between his. He doesn't fight it, doesn't even move. Grazing a hand across his shoulders and onto the bicep furthest from me, I nestle my face in the space where his shoulder connects with his neck.

Placing a gentle kiss on the cool skin I say, "Come back to bed."

I want to help. He needs to know that.

His muscles are stiff and unyielding against my loose embrace. Despite his relaxed appearance, he is tense to his core.

"I can't. It's..."

I'm not sure whether he let the sentence drop because he was finished with it, or because I'd started gently rubbing his shoulders. As I feel his body slowly start to relax, I move my fingers up to his temples, brushing aside silky hair in the process, and gently push little swirling circles onto his skull. Finally, Sherlock's body seems to go limp as he leans back and collapses against my chest. He turns his face into my neck and breathes in.

He moves our connected hands onto my knee. "You're all-consuming silence."

I smile weakly and slide my arms around his torso. "Come to bed, Sherlock."

This time, he comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That ended up with way more angst than I meant it to have. Sorry for the heavy burden. XD
> 
> Remember, I'd love prompts!
> 
> Comments appreciated. :) -C


	16. Follow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. This is it! I am finally putting an end to this story. Sorry I've left everyone hanging for a while there. I'll be coming off of hiatus now, just not sure how much I'll be posting new works. This has been fun and I'm so very glad that you've enjoyed this.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who ever commented, favorited, or followed Turning of the Tide. Also, thanks so much to everyone who supported me so kindly during my hiatus.
> 
> And now, let the reading commence!

I wake on my back with a nose pressed firmly to the side of my neck and a large, warm hand resting across the band of my pyjama bottoms.

During the night, I had turned away from Sherlock, so now I slowly move to bury my face in the soft curls beside me. Eyes sliding shut, I breathe in the scent of this madman I've entangled my life—and now body—with. The arm pressed into the mattress by Sherlock's body has easy access to his smooth shoulder, and I spend idle moments stroking the soft skin there, resting in the honeyed morning light.

I'm careful not to wake up the exhausted detective, but only a few minutes pass before I feel the fingers on my stomach lightly flex into my skin.

"I'm awake," he mutters into my chest.

Neither of us moves at first, but I can feel Sherlock's toes flexing beneath the blankets and know it's only a matter of minutes before he's ready to get up.

Inhaling deeply, I turn on my side, simultaneously pressing Sherlock over and onto his back. He lets out a quiet sigh as I nose the sheets lower until I can nuzzle into his smooth belly. I press my lips there lazily, tasting the slight tang from our activities the night before, and then rub Eskimo kisses into the velvety skin until he begins to squirm. With a smile, I move back up and press another kiss to his shoulder.

He turns his face to me, and I can feel his eyelashes against my temple. Bracing myself on my hands, I push up and look down into the ghostly face. Something in my chest loosens to see clear eyes blinking back at me. Gone is the smothering shadow that had haunted them the day before.

"Tea?" I murmur softly.

A small, genuine smile tilts his mouth upwards. "Please."

I roll out of bed and pad my way into the kitchen, putting the kettle on before making a trip to the bathroom. My stomach is still slightly sticky from the night before, so I grab a cloth and clean up the best I can before going back to the bedroom.

Sherlock hasn't moved, so I crawl over the bed to him and clean his belly, slowly pulling the flannel across skin as the muscles beneath quiver slightly. As I back away to finish the tea, he grips my wrist lightly and pulls me in, initiating a quiet, calm kiss. I tug gently on his bottom lip with both of mine as I pull away, kissing his palm before going back to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, we're both propped up on pillows, sipping tea as the sunlight crawls further into the room. It climbs over our feet and up the bed until the room is flooded in all its golden beauty.

"It's morning," I say, for no obvious reason.

"Well deduced."

"Smartarse," I mutter, taking a sip.

He hums. "Yes, but I'm quite sure you can attest to the fact that my arse is one of my finer… _assets_."

I turn my head slowly, staring at him for a full thirty seconds, mug poised for a drink. "Sherlock Holmes," I say, "did you just make a pun?"

I see his lips curl into a smile behind his cup as he takes a posh sip. Pale eyes meet mine, and then we're chuckling—no,  _giggling,_ and the morning really is absolutely glorious.

"What's on today, then?" I ask once we've caught our breath, shifting slightly to press my bent knee to his thigh.

He shrugs delicately, swallows his tea. Smug bastard hadn't spilt a drop during our bout of near-hysterics. I, on the other hand, hadn't been so fortunate. "Nothing as of yet. Perhaps Lestrade will call with a case."

I turn and study his profile. He lets me, continuing to make progress on his tea as I take in the slope of his nose, his highlighted cheekbones. He's unhurried, almost unconcerned whether there is a case or not. I know it won't last, and that's perfectly fine. I need a case just as much as he does, most times. It's what had brought us together in the first place, the work. I won't complain. (Much.)

So I settle back against the bed and bring the mug to my lips, listening as London awakens outside. Later, Sherlock will be back to his whirlwind self, dashing about the flat in want of a case, petulant over Lestrade's incompetence.

Perhaps he'll call. Perhaps the case will be intriguing. Perhaps Sherlock's eyes will brighten in excitement and he'll loop on his scarf and spin into his coat. Perhaps he'll call  _Come on, John!_ as he thunders down the stairs.

And I'll follow.

(Obviously.)

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try to update weekly (probably Saturday nights. Yes, I have no social life), so you should be able to count on that.
> 
> The prologue is in third person, but the rest of it is from John's POV.
> 
> Thanks for reading! -C
> 
> (You can find me on tumblr [here](http://bens-chins.tumblr.com) )


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